Things come inside her. Thoughts, to be exact. She sees images of her, soaked in blood, waiting for her death to come. She wonders how it feels like. Or maybe you can’t feel anything? Is it chaotic? Is it ethereal? Those questions come into her mind.
In the dark room, she sits and stares into the blank space. She can’t see anything, but in her mind, everything is working. Everything is moving. Her heart pumps rapidly, with the thrill and excitement of meeting death. Death, in her mind, is just like that.
In reality, she can’t do that. She can’t stab herself, cut her wrists, and tie her head with a hanging rope. She can’t do it. She is afraid that if she died, she won’t feel happier than she already is. Or was. She is not aware that she values life. That life, is the happiest place you can be, at the same time it is the loneliest. That it depends on the person who is living. Others are tired of being living, while others are tired of being dead all their lives. People can’t seem to be contented with everything they’ve got.
She wishes to be dead, but can’t even do a thing to make it happen. That’s bullshit.
She turns on her lamp. The dark room becomes brighter, but it’s still dim. She stares at the hanging rope. She must have prepared it earlier. But she can’t do it. She lacks courage to do so. She instead cries alone on her bed, sitting, staring again in blank space.
“I’m going to be dead, someday.” That’s what she said.