There had been few occasions in which he had been so certain he was about to die. Laying there, he could feel the life drain out of him.

He had been in bed sick for days now. He had barely eaten anything, other than the food his wife had made him. That was barely any real sustenance compared to the mountains of food he was normally greeted with.

He wasn’t sure if the illness would kill him off before he finally perished from lack of food. All he did know was that death was knocking at his door.

He lay there, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. To the right of him was a cup of water he had barely touched, terrified he wouldn’t be able to keep it down. He hadn’t been able to keep much down lately.

As he lay there, he thought that nobody could possibly have been as sick as he was feeling right now. He just begged for the death to come along swiftly to finish him off, and he wasn’t left to suffer much longer.

He felt his eyes begin to close. The life was draining rapidly out of him so quickly, that pretty soon his world became fuzzy. He shut his eyes and swiftly fell asleep.

To his surprise, a few hours later, he woke up. He felt different. He wasn’t in as much pain anymore. Gingerly, he took a sip of water, and realised he didn’t feel like throwing it up.

He was so happy. He wasn’t going to die. He called to his wife to let her know he was better.

“I know,” she said, sighing. “You only had a cold.”