The Fic Book

Thoughts of the Dying

This chilling tale was masterfully penned by AshesPhoenix, another one of our wonderful writers. 

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We're all doomed, anyways.

Everyone will die.

I'm just a bit ahead of schedule, but that's all right. I have already planned my funeral. The types of flowers. The colours. The music played. You know, I've always liked Beethoven. I want it to be in a cool, clear evening, just a bit after dinner. This way, nobody would be hungry, and no stomachs will growl loudly while my eulogy is read. I hope the moon will rise when there are no clouds, until when the funeral ends, rays of moonlight will be beaming down at the crowd like I have imagined. It is quite fitting for my song choice. Moonlight Sonata. I can play it from memory, and that is what I'm doing now, feeling the cool keys vibrating to my touch, pressing the pedal to the right over and over again with my foot. I was curious today, and wanted to feel what it would be like to play it barefoot. I look away from the ivory keys, contemplating the afternoon sunlight thrown in from the spotless windows, bouncing off one glass paperweight and casting a shower of rainbows at the warm yellow walls. It is most strange that when you are about to lose something, you begin to appreciate it more. For me, it is my life. 

I have never noticed the joys of music, of sitting on the edge of a clear, sparkling lake, of standing in the rain, getting soaked to the skin, of climbing mountains, dust all over my shoes, watching the sprawling city below, of witnessing a comet shower, of watching the moon rise as the day dies, of... so many things I have not yet tried. I have always wanted to take up skydiving, but I have not. Instead, I settled for swimming, surfing, and kayaking, feeling the droplets of water on my skin, moving through it as though it is air. It feels like flight if you imagine enough. You see, I want to fly. A childish desire, I know, but all the same, flight. 

My time is short; I know not when my end will come. Perhaps a day, a week, a month, at most. Not more, for I know my limits, and how long I can hold on. 

Isn't it strange that I plan something that I will never witness? My funeral will be the last personal mark I make upon the world, the last chance for someone to see my face. 

My last chance to tell anyone about my life, my thoughts before my end, dies at the end of my funeral. This is, perhaps, why I plan so obsessively. My final goodbyes, if you will. I cannot include everything I want to say; my funeral would take weeks if I were to write so much. Besides, I do not have the time. Also, I want a sort of finality to my death. I want the last memories of me to end with the full moon in a clear sky, a cool breeze blowing, leaves swirling through the air, and a lonely tree over my grave. I want the hill to be grassy, small droplets of dew sparkling in the grass. I want grass, because dust would ruin the funeral. 

My funeral will be formal. I want to see certain people in formal wear, and there is a specific person I want to see in a tuxedo. I hope someone snaps a picture and leaves it on my grave. Funny, how I imagine the moment. I suppose I am a bit dramatic, but this is my end, and I want to milk it for all it's worth. I am rather young for death. Some would say that I am too young to die, but I will. In a month, at most. 

Hopefully, I will die in bed. I do not want to die cleaning the window or something like that. That would be downright undignified. 

I have finished playing the music. My fingers rest on the keys, no longer playing the delightful piece, as I contemplate this. 

The daylight recedes from my window, from the elegant glass paperweight. The rainbows fade, then disappear. I glance at where the last one had winked for a second before vanishing, noticing the object immediately below it. My phone, screen facing up. I rise from the piano bench and walk toward the object. I pause for a second, holding the phone in my hands. Then I open it, typing the password I know so well. My cold fingers leave craters in the landscape of dust. 

The home screen pops in while I stop, musing over why, and when, I have left this here. I attempt to blow the dust away, dust particles swirling in the air, but stop when I realise the dust layer is too thick to remove by wind alone. I pass my thumb over the screen, creating a cold, dry valley. Is this what my life has come to, a streak of glass in this landscape of dust, soon to become covered again? 

I wipe off most of the dust with my fingers and stare at the games I have never bothered to delete, their little icons unique and colourful. Then I click on an icon, my only social one. I have it for connecting with like-minded people. I check my notifications. Nobody had inquired of me, why I suddenly stopped posting without a single warning. It is to be expected. They have all forgotten me. I sigh and toy with the idea of telling them I will be dead by next month, but discard the notion immediately. Let them form their own conclusions, I think. I close it and lock my phone. I leave it where I found it- on the shelf under the window. The sunlight has long receded, and the moon is rising. 

All through dinner, I stare at my will, just lying there on my table. After eating, I go to my computer. The screen is not dusty, for I have composed many a will in the past week alone. I edit it, leaving twenty percent to charity and the rest to my distant family. I click print and walk downstairs to retrieve it. I open the lights and lay it on the table, next to the old one. If I still live tomorrow, I will call some witnesses and sign it. If I don't- well, I don't. 

I stay in the shower until it runs cold. Then I turn off the lights and climb into my warmed bed. Who knows? I might live another day.