The taste of death

The end

Silence . . .
Vast emptiness . . .
And absolute darkness . . .

Last time we had seen Gogol, he had done one of the most unspeakable acts a man could ever do — his self righteous suicide. A form of dying that in his eyes was a flawless escape from a horrid reality that had plunged the world into unbeatable chaos. When life is darkness itself, there couldn't be anything more gloom and shallow that a weak conscience of existence. A form of existence, an empty carcass of a  humanoid shape than inhales sharp and poisonous air forcing a heart to throb, unwillingly in response. Yet for some, the being as a mere sewer rat fighting for survival in a inconsiderate world was all that nature could give. Hence The Rats in the house of a dead was a place such devils could feel fit. This perceivence for some, of how others go in their day to day live so reassured yet so blatant in their own pitful existence  was reason enough to overstep any non-written boundaries and give way to slaughter of masses for a goal of ridding the world of evil. Evil indeed expects evil from others — but who best could even come close to comprehend the reasoning of a man hidden behind the clown mask than a devil itself? For some, the awareness that only evil can understand their pain truly brings solace. What if . . . only evil itself can save mankind? Thus the clown has chosen to become rotten inside out is the only way to break free of the clutches of existence through the guidance of a demon.

Let's take a deep breath and try to salvage the shards of a broken life ended abruptly. After tackling and messing around with the Armed Detective Agency in a cat and mouse game, in a successful attempt of  ensuring the loss of the hostages lives, he returned to the room where he had set a single chair for himself. Our clown sat down and offered himself as a sacrifice to aid the goals of the demon leading him to his doom. However the most sinister and inhumane aspect here — the twist here was, that this chair had a chainsaw attached forcing the man to stay a victim to his own ideals. Gogol sat there, cheerfully, with a chainsaw around his waist. As The Armed Detective Agency stood and watched in dread, standing with a shocking numbness unable to move as they were aware of the nightmare unfolding before them — man commit this heinous crime. Gogol truly had believed he was free. It seemed as nothing but pure insanity as he sat there being cut in half with a massive smile in his face. Perhaps the role of the clown was truly who this man was — but this is a clown, who shall never again rise to make anyone laugh ever again. This was a clown from hell itself.

But right now, the situation is quite dire.

Gogol could reach out his hand, but nonethless, there's nothing there. He could try to scream, but neither a sound would come out. He could blink, but he'd see nothing. He could listen — but alas, hear nothing. 

This was it. This was death. This was his freedom. All Gogol could do was force his eyes to make sense of the pure darkness to no avail, Thus Gogol concentrated  around his thoughts and wander in his beliefs, memories and of course, reflections on life.

"Did i really do the right thing?" One thought screamed the loudest in his mind. «Did i truly set my sould free?» He tried to hear his thoughts over the agonizing silence. He tried to feel but this numbness was simply horrid.

Gogol could feel as if the darkness was a stream pulling him further and deeper into the nothingness we call the void. He thought about all the yesterdays, about what lead him here, his last few days . . . hours . . . minutes and ultimetly — his last breath. He also reminiscenced about the man whom promised him to free his soul — Fyodor Dostoevsky. «Did he fool me?» Ironically, said the clown. «The joke is usually told by the clown» Gogol felt an urge to whimper but yet again — he could not. «Am i the joke?» Silent whispers found home in his head as they echoed back and forth and soon enough, Gogol felt as if the sounds aren't in his head — he felt as if they flow all about the void.  

Gogol had no idea how long had he been like this or what actually this was. Surely he thought this can't be the end. But the thought of being stuck like this forever frightened the man. «Is this why suicide is a sin? Does everyone come here?» . Panic, hysteria and fear creeped up and took him by surprise «Why do i still feel pain? Shouldn't it end?» But the pain he felt was emptiness — it was it all along, even in life. People always assume hurt brings one the most pain, but it's trully the emptiness. A feeling is only as strong as one let's it grow. But emptiness — it's a contradiction to existence. Living without feeling is nothing more than a shared lucid dream by the masses. But ironically when Gogol was dead — it was when he so badly yearned to live again.

But the thing about death is — you can try to prepare for it, learn about it, research all the theories there are but you never know what's actually there. That might be what keeps most away from death — the fear of nothing. Most see it as a sweet sorrow, a bliss — the ultimate freedom one could have as they romanticise it as if it's some sort of a twisted final brush stroke to a masterpiece making it into the brilliant art piece it is. Perhaps that may even be the meaning behind existence — ugly in life but beautiful in death. Gogol felt pity for himself as he wallowed in his own mind. 

He recalled one of the final moments leading up to here — «I understand the difference between good and bad and the monstrosity behind murder. I am completely sane, after all.», He repeated his own words in circles that he had said back then to Nakajima Atsushi wondering how sane he really was. «Is it actually sanity to end your own life?» He wanted to scream as the thoughts began unfolding themselves by themselves «Is it sanity to arrive in a place such as this? This nothing will eat me up till i become nothing but empty space myself» and even in death, even Gogol didn't want to cease all fingerprints of his being. 

«Hush there, you are safe»

A single voice came from about the abyss ensuring the clown. «This is not death. Neither are you dead.» 

A single voice yet it was all Gogol needed to feel some sort of a reassurance. He felt the voice speak. He felt the vibrations of the angelic voice linger in the void filling the nothingness with meaning and hope. Gogol felt existance, for once — it felt sweeter than the death he ever so longed for. He felt a tears finally coming out of his eye sockets.

Gogol felt a sharp sting in his chest. it was indication of breathing. For once this throbbing heart felt so good. Gogol enjoyed it dearly.

He finally began to feel warmth. Yet Gogol felt cold and wet on his face. As he opened his eyes with the little strength he had, his eyes gave a sight on a blurred image of a woman with short hair. «Angel . . . are you an angel?» Gogol tried to reach out his tired hand that was stiff for quite a while only to feel another taking a hold of it and squeezing it carefully. "It feels so warm" Gogol felt that even within his heart. As the woman caressed his jawline with her other soft hand while holding on to the just awoken man, she couldn't speak as her throat had too many painful knots that denied her the chance to speak. Gogol's vision finally began to focus to let him glance closer to the face of who had been here for him — and the moment he saw her, he was shook. She truly was an angel — she was the angel of death. Yosano Akiko had brought Gogol back to the living. Gogol closed his eyes as he let Yosano's tears cleanse him as feeling this was reasons enough for living.

Gogol was finally free.