TW: Death

I’m unsure which of my senses returned first. If it was the gunshot that startled me back into consciousness or the grass prickling my skin or the numbness seeping into my bones. At this point I’m not sure it matters.

It all feels disjointed, like when you wake up from a vivd dream and for a couple seconds can’t distinguish whether or not you’re still dreaming. I don’t believe I dreamt during the period I was blacked out. I’m not sure that’s even physically possible.

The silence surrounding me is deafening. I don’t know who fired the gun, if it’s someone out here looking for me or a random passerby who knows no more about my current state than I do. I have no idea where I am or how long I’ve been here for. I don’t know my name, where I’m from, if I have family out somewhere who love me and are looking for me. Or if I’m going to die here alone, unaware, undiscovered.

All I know is pain. The throbbing at the back of my head, the numbness caused by the cold. There’s snow on the ground, I didn’t notice there was snow beforehand. There’s many things I didn’t notice. Many, many things.

It feels like I’m suspended in a strange constant flicker between ebbing back into the world and fading out of it forever. One moment I can see the sky above me clearly, sunlight flitting through bare branches. The next, everything is blurry and distorted. The sun is no longer shining and the branches look like twisted claws, the type that children see shadows of in their nightmares. When the world becomes clear again it is night, with stars twinkling above me. They seem close enough to reach out and clasp in my hand but yet a thousand light years away at the same time.

I’m starting to think that I’m losing my sense of self. There’s been no noise since the gunshot and while I don’t know how long ago that was, I’m beginning to doubt if it ever happened. Maybe it was just a figment of my imagination. Maybe this is all a figment of my imagination. Some silly little dream that soon I will wake up from, shake it off, and move on with my life.

I hope this is a dream.

I don’t think this is a dream.

If this was I dream I wouldn’t be in pain.

If this was a dream I wouldn’t be dying.

The next time I come around there’s a man leaning over me. I should be feeling joyous, elated, perhaps he can make my pain go away. Instead I feel a building sense of dread. This man’s face is familiar. I don’t remember why I find him familiar but I do. I think I trusted him.

Trusted.

Past tense.

What can’t I remember?

I think the man is speaking to me. I can see his lips moving but I hear no sound escaping. I want to know what he is telling me. I need to know what he is telling. Why does the sight of him make everything within me want to bolt away even though I’m too weak to move a single limb?

Why can’t I remember?

The man takes a step. If I was capable I think I would have sighed with relief. I couldn’t though, I am too tense, too frozen, to do anything other than lay here and wait for fate to run its course. The man pulls out a gun.

When will I remember?

Too late.

The answer is always too late.

The trigger is pulled and my eyes are closed before the bullet pierces my skin.

Why can’t I remember?

This is not a dream.

Too late.

Always too late.

Goodbye.