My Life with Death

Room 121, Motel Convention Center, Arlington, Washington, D.C.

 My life collapsed into a small, dark motel room on the outskirts of D.C. I left my family and the life I knew that I loved so much. But I knew it was right for now. I did the right thing - not by all moral standards - but it was the right thing for now. And most of all, I knew - I hoped - that I would return to Kent and Christine again. Soon, I hope. Hopefully, as quickly as possible, they are the only reason I still have a reason to fight for. They are the reason why I haven't given up yet and why I haven't shot myself.

Now I couldn't think about how much I miss them. I had to work. That kept me sane, and most importantly, I forgot all the problems, at least for a while. But, of course, it was more complex than it seemed at first glance. The pains got worse and worse. Medicines that I took only in extreme situations practically did not work.

I couldn't sleep. I couldn't even relax, close my eyes for a moment. I couldn't stop the thoughts. It was harder than I thought. I don't even know what I imagined dying like, and I don't even know why. After all, who would imagine their death? Who would want to feel what breaking is like on their skin? Nobody wants to die.