𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 by A.P.Mary

25

I had never considered what death might look like. That is completely untrue. When I was young, the idea of death was a dilemma that kept me up at night. The void theory made my stomach turn and caused me to cry as I would consider whether I'll be reunited with my family or will have to face darkness alone. Instead of being a typical child, I grew up too quickly and my mind was pre-loaded with a tremendous amount of thoughts.

Now that I have a bullet in my stomach, it's hard to feel anything, but after my encounter with Mom, I clearly have no remorse. The last thing I want is to have unfinished business here. I close my eyes and let myself fall backwards, and all the weight is suddenly nonexistent. I feel the rush of wind on my face as I plummet towards the water below, knowing that this is the moment I've been waiting for. The adrenaline coursing through my veins makes me feel alive, and I savor every second of the freefall before hitting the water. I breathe in, and I open my eyes one last time.

Fucking hell

Angelo is falling over me and somehow is stable in his fall. Can't I die peacefully? He reaches out and holds me in a tight embrace while we splash into the high water underneath. Imagine If the bottom wasn't deep and we would just smash our brains in concrete, I giggle in my mind, and I let myself not worry about fighting back a breath or pushing him away.

I feel him taking me somewhere, and air comes and goes since swimming with a 60 kg human might not be the easiest thing to do. My back hits a surface, but my eyes are slowly closing.

I'm exhausted, I cannot endure more than i did until now, and more pain wouldn't be a solution

"Please stay with me, fight a little ok?" He's hardly breathing and I hardly see his face in the darkness. I touch his face with my hand, and he unconsciously leans in. He rips his shirt off and starts pressing down on my stomach and I can feel the bullet inside. Pain is strange. I feel it, but at the same time I don't. My body refuses to feel any more pain, and a bullet ain't a tragedy.

Until he takes it out with bare hands, for then to press onto the surface, blocking blood from coming out. I scream, and he puts a piece of cloth in my mouth.

I widen my eyes and feel sand underneath me. It doesn't take me too much to understand that I was experiencing those 7 minutes of reliving my life, and my consciousness sent me back.

The place I fell for him. I remember him looking directly into my eyes, masking that vicious side that wanted to kill me with a pretty face, and then proceeding to talk me into a state of mindfulness, without thinking about anything else that could make me suspicious of him. During my stay in his basement I accepted the thought that led me thinking it was all a lie, but now, and I see the current situation, I like to think that he wasn't forcing himself into wasting time with me.

The sand suddenly morphs into an even rocky surface. The small creases that formed some small silly shapes got me already into the exact memory. The night of the festival. I wore a pretty dress because Blaise forced me to, and I feared to not be able to run from the enemy. That night I kissed the enemy, a lethal kiss that would've killed me even in sweatpants and a pair of the most comfortable shoes in the world. He was a beautiful liar, a smart enemy, and an attractive partner. He wasn't necessarily just physically attractive, but his whole aura attracted me to him, just like two magnetic forces, with just the only detail that he was the one attracting me, and I just let myself go into his trap. This was the plot-twist of my story, the intrigue in my book, if it would ever exist.

The rock now is uneven, spiky almost, and cold as ice. The basement. Here is where I spent the most time thinking if I should smack my head repeatedly on the wall so that I could feel something, hoping that my skull would just crash. That place made me analyze myself, my fears, my emotions, there i could actually have time to reflect on how fucked my life was, and someone would laugh at the fact it took me 23 years to figure it out.

That's the thing, when a person is born into a mentality, they will always think that that's normality, when in fact it isn't . I started analyzing my life, and how naive I was, and for what I know, still am. I almost died because of them. Hanged, choked, now shot, but this time It was more for my own reasons. After all these events, I cannot bring myself to hate him, I can't metabolize him as being the villain in my story, because he was just a mirror all this time. He's my reflection.

The concrete was suddenly soft, silky, my back moans for me, and I cannot mistake the only silk sheets I've ever laid on. His bed. He is a broken man, a rotten soul, and I despise him with all my sour soul. I would kill him, shoot him, behead him with a butterknife. I would pay someone to torture him while i watch in silence. But with all of this, I cannot deny the suppressed feelings I get when I just look at him. His hair that goes on his face when the bun is not tight enough, the tattoos he made me analyze when we were in his car for the first time, and his touch that finally made me feel less of a disgusting being. My back scars, done by me, cleansing my soul with pain. But he touched me and made me feel like I deserve it, delicate touches that cured something in my tiny self.

Now I cannot feel anything but pain, tears, and of course..

fear.