I have always been scared of dying. And let me tell you, the feeling doesn't go away.
Most people probably don't wake up on their "death day" thinking they're going to die. But that's just how life works sometimes, isn't it?
Some people get to experience it quickly. One second their minds are full of thoughts. Happy thoughts, but also depressing, hopeless, and overwhelming ones. A mental list of what their day is going to entail. Their week, maybe even their year all mapped out in meticulous detail. They have thoughts about their friends and their family and their plans for life.
Then all of the thoughts that have been accumulating since their birth die within the snap of a finger.
Just. Like. That.
It's certainly not fair. They don't get to see their loved ones for the final time, nor do they get to have flashbacks of the life they've lived. When you die suddenly, there's no time to prepare for anything. Nope. Death just comes like a wave, sweeping them into an eternity of nothingness in one foul swoop.
But then again, maybe that wouldn't be so bad, I thought to myself.
At least you wouldn't have to knowingly die alone, or even realize for more than a second you were dying. At least it's mostly painless. Yes. Come to think of it maybe that wouldn't be so bad.
Every breath I took ignited a longer, hotter flame within my lungs. The pain demanded me to be aware of every last breath I took.
One breath in. Tick.
One breath out. Tock.
I tried to delay it. I held my breath, not allowing the heat to encompass me. But eventually I let go and came gasping for air, only making the fire angrier at me, thrashing in my lungs with more intensity than before.
I was going to die alone.
As I laid on the ground, I took in what very well might be my final surroundings. The metallic ceiling matched the crumbling grey cement walls. The air was musty, and the floor cold. The rumbling of a vent nearby hummed in my ear, reminding me that when I stopped breathing, it'd still be going. In one corner of the room was a stairwell laced equally with cobwebs and impossibility. Finally, my eyes landed on my ticket out. I was not going to die here, alone and abandoned in a room in which no one will ever find me.
After grueling effort I got up off the ground and headed towards the elevator. Each step I took felt like I was dragging a 50 pound steel weight behind me. Every bone in my body ached, my head pounded. The room span, melting all the gloomy colors into an endless swirl that coiled around my mind as if it were a snake, and I it's prey.
Unwelcome images from my childhood came flashing through my mind. The first time I rode a bicycle. My head was turned over my right shoulder, looking back at my father who had just given me a push with a gleaming smile. He was proud of me.
A few years later I heard my mom sobbing in the bathroom. I remember knocking on the door but nothing happening, so I sat with my back against it for hours until the sound of her heavy breathing put me to sleep.
The first funeral I attended was my dad's. I pictured myself seated with my mother, listening to the man who attempted to convince everyone there that the man in the casket - the man who just died of a heroin overdose - was going to heaven.
The thoughts dissipated as I pushed the button. Seconds later the elevator doors opened and I stumbled through, sinking into the floor on my knees and sobbing, each racking breath making me wish I were dead.
I must be getting close now.
As the elevator rose to the top floor I laid with my eyes shut. Once more memories tried to invade my mind, I squeezed my eyes tighter, hoping to block them from coming. But when you're dying, there's not much you can do to stop anything.
Thoughts of my friends flashed through my mind this time. Back to my first college party. The girl I met there. The girl who I wasted the night away with, who introduced me to drugs.
I laughed with her, both of us sitting on the bed as she tightened the band around my arm. Her sparkling blue eyes looked up at me with excitement.
"Ready?" She breathed.
Ready? The sound echoed off the walls.
Now her voice mocked me.
My eyes were forced open just as the elevator stopped. I could feel my heart giving out. I knew I was coming to my end.
Suddenly I found my hands grasping at my throat, trying to find that magic lever that would reopen my airway. The magic lever that would redo what I just did to myself. I was gagging and gasping for air, foaming at the mouth as a surge of fire coursed through my veins. I writhed violently on the floor, my body no longer my own.
Tick.
The elevator door opened and I took in my final sight with bloodshot, foggy eyes.
I have always been scared of dying.
Tock.
And let me tell you, the feeling doesn't go away...
