Sensation

Blood is dripping from your mouth. You taste the metallic taste of it.

If you look down, you'll see it pooling next to your face. But you don't look down. You don't look anywhere. Your vision is blurred and all you can make out are faint shapes.

You don't hear much over the ringing in your ears, but maybe if you could pay attention you would hear them talking.

"What do we do with the body?" asks one voice, small, hesitant.

"Bury it," says another, colder and more commanding.

"But they'll find her, won't they?"

"It," the cold voice corrects. "They'll find IT."

"It," the small voice repeats. "But what do we do when they find the body?"

"We'll be gone by then," the cold voice says. "Long gone. And they won't even know to look for us."

You feel the pool of blood coming from your mouth spread. It is touching your cheek. There must be pain, because you feel the blood seeping from your abdomen, making an even larger pool on the rough wood floor. But you feel nothing. You are light and cool, ready to float away. This must be death. Has to be.

But you still see them, not from far away. You see the shapes moving around. The larger one approaches you, moves its arms under you to pick your limp body up. But it pauses.

You feel rough, dexterous fingers on your neck, checking your faint pulse.

Through the ringing in your ears you hear a muffled "Dammit!"

You are still alive. Barely alive. But they need you to be dead. You should have already been dead.

You don't remember much from the past few days, but you know that whatever happened means you will be better off this way. If you concentrate, you can remember hearing your own screams as if they came from someone else's mouth. They echoed off the walls. And there was so much pain, so much fear. It is better, so much better, to go away, to be without sensation.

You don't believe in Heaven, not really. The handful of sermons you heard in your childhood left you cold. Why should you imagine paradise after death when paradise is an alien concept? What good would it do you?

But you think you understand now. Paradise is complete peace. No pain, no fear, no feelings. It will be dark and cold, but you will not feel it. You'll be at peace.

Will they give you that peace yet? That was their plan, after all.

Your vision is almost nonexistent, but you think you make out the glint of a knife in one of their hands. The smaller shape's hands. The knife shakes. If you were listening, you'd hear the small voice:

"Please, can't you finish her off?" it begs.

"It," hisses the cold voice. "And no, I can't. You signed up for this. End it, so we can get rid of the body and get out of here."

"I can't do it," the small voice says. "I never wanted this. You said you'd do it."

"I thought I did, but it didn't work. Do it."

The knife hits the ground with a thud. The bigger shape is angry now. It hits the small shape hard and picks up the knife.

You feel footsteps approach you. You do not feel the knife slice through your carotid artery. Blood splashes into your mouth. You taste it. Is that the only sense left now?

Even taste disappears soon. Your vision is gone, replaced by blackness. You feel nothing. You hear nothing.

The owner of the small voice is in trouble. Its cheek throbs from the punch and it lies on the ground, watching the other shape kill you. At this point death is a mercy for you, the small shape knows this. You will feel no more pain, you will never scream and beg and cry again.

The owner of the small voice wants to join you, and maybe it will. If its co-conspirator decides now is a good time, this will happen. And the small shape will be free.

But the owner of the small voice already knows this isn't happening. The other one has already left the room, carrying your body and a shovel. The owner of the small voice resignedly stands up and goes outside and sits in the car. Nothing ever ends when it wants it to.