I don't mind dying. At least, I don't mind the idea. But an idea, and actually doing it, those are two very different things.
I have this cancer that's killing me. It's spreading like a worm. My friend has one that they caught early, what the doctors like to refer to as a pre-cancerous growth, among a billion other "doctor" names they use for these things. His can be cut out, mine can't. In the six months since I was diagnosed, I haven't really worried about it. I'm not afraid to die.
The doctors, of course, yeah, they keep telling me I need this medicine or that treatment. Fuck them, it's my body, and I'm not afraid to die. I'm not going to live like a damn lab rat, or some couch potato incarcerated in his own home until his cells give up and send the self destruct code to his organs. They gave me six months. I knew death was coming, I didn't realize it would be today.
My muscles hurt when I move. Hell, they hurt all the time. I stumble a little when I walk, and that hurts worse. I figured death would be the most painful part. It turned out to be painless. You see, all the treatments, the medicine; yeah, they could've given me that. It may have slowed the cancer but wouldn't have changed my sentence. When it's time to go, you go. And when it's about to happen, you know. At least I did.
I was walking home from the grocery store; trying to walk. Then a bang, and a crunch. Funny how even a little collision, when there's a vehicle involved, sounds like a damn explosion. The tire jumped the curb. Bang, crunch, squeal. I knew I was dead. My six months was up.
