Her eyes rolled in to the back of her head, and, though my body was still holding the pattern of movement, my mind was distracted in thought, thought of one question, "What, at that moment, was she seeing?" Blackness, whiteness, redness? Dreams, reality, death? God? What, in that final moment of pain/pleasure, was so significant as to suck her eyes back in such an unnatural yet enviable contortion? The thought filled with a bizarre mixture of curiosity, frustration, pride, and jealousy. I wanted so wholy to know what she saw that, for half a second, I truly wished we could trade places. The second half of that second I spent trying to convince myself that I hadn't had that thought. With a lingering sense of guilt and frustration, I quickly finished the job, my only compensation being in the hollow glory of watching her collapse in that final moment. As she lay there motionless, I thought, "Strength is transient. Experience is eternal." It was neither the first nor the last time I contemplated suicide.