A/N: As a brilliant friend once said: "The Trisicut(+). It is not insignificant."
(+)Triscuit, a tasty wheat cracker. Pronounced incorrectly due to drunkenness (hers, not mine).
last thoughts of a dying man.
As you lay dying in a pool of your own blood, you tend to think about the little things. How strange it is to feel warmth actively leaving your body, how oddly sticky your blood is.
Then again, I can't speak for everybody, but this is what I'm thinking. I'm not even sure how long I've been lying here; time is suddenly and strikingly relative. One moment is as good (or as bad) as the next.
My hand moves slower than I want it to, but it eventually makes it's way to the knife wound in my gut. I have the sudden insane urge to poke around in there, see what everything feels like. It seems off, somehow, that I've been walking around with this body all this time, and yet the doctor who removed my appendix when I was sixteen knows what it feels like, and I don't. Doctors know; nurses too, probably. I have no idea. That seems wrong.
There's a light shining somewhere in the distance. I can't tell whether I'm looking at the sky or the wet concrete beneath me, because one is just as dark as the other. Where does the world end, and where do I begin?
You'd think I'd concentrate on more important things, like my family and friends, or perhaps if I have any chance in hell of getting out of this alive. I'm pretty sure I'm dying though, and the little things seem so much more interesting, seem entirely more significant than they have ever been. I'm becoming a shell of myself, in the literal sense.
The light is stationary. I'm laying in a puddle, blood and water mixing together.
Footsteps slap the pavement somewhere in the distance. Too far away to call, because my mouth is more interested in hanging open uselessly. They recede endlessly into the blackness beyond my blurring vision. I wonder if they're running to me, or if they're running away. Either way, by the time they get to their destination I'll be a crime scene.
I laugh at the thought, gagging on my own blood. This shouldn't be funny. It is. It is horribly, viciously, insanely hilarious, and I'd be laughing more if I wasn't choking.
It's all well and good, I think, to be noble until the end. To think of nothing but your one true love, or the people you're leaving behind. But it's a lie, because all I can seem to recall about anything at this very moment is the snail I saw in my mother's garden when I was ten. I sat there for an hour watching it as it moved across the ground, excruciatingly slow. It just kept on going, no matter what was in it's way.
It never seemed like it was going anywhere at all.