As the poison spreads through her veins, she’s more relaxed, more lucid, less worried. The fire in her eyes die. They’ve always been dull, she muses. Her thoughts are a scattered mess, barely recognizable in the thick, foggy haze. Her eyes roll back her lids, her head swoons and hits the couch. If she’d been standing, she would have fallen and hit the glass coffee table. She chuckles as she ponders on that possibility. It would have been quicker but she hates blood. She manages to laugh softly, a maniacal, strangled sound. As if blood would matter. As if she would have the energy to care. How her hair would tangle in the caked pool of her own blood. How her dress would soak and turn into a red bloody mess. How unpretty the sight would be. If only her will to live was even a tenth of her vanity.
Her breathing slows into shallow puffs. Her heartbeat reduces to soft thumps. She can’t feel her limbs, her own skin. She’s numb but her brain switches to sudden clarity, as alert as it could ever be. She keeps waiting for that flashback, her life from the beginning in fast-forward. She keeps waiting for the bright white light. She’s waiting for something, anything.
Seconds turn into minutes. She counts her heartbeat.
Three hundred twenty-five.
Her breathing stops.
Three hundred twenty-six.
She closes her eyes.
Three hundred twenty-seven.
She’s still waiting for something. Anything.
Three hundred twenty-eight.
Her hearing fails.
Three hundred twenty-nine.
She resigns to her fate– immortalized in numbness and disappointment.
It was over. It didn’t hurt. That was her only consolation.
