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Death was a sickening feeling, it was something no one warned you about.
Alex did suppose that made sense, no one who’d experienced it was around to warn about the experience.
Or maybe it simply felt so awful because it was slow.
Tim had certainly got him, he won. Bring a knife to a gunfight, he wasn’t supposed to win, but he’d gotten too close and- before he knew it he couldn’t breathe, gasping and wheezing like a breached whale.
The knife was gone and there was nothing but his own hand, clutching at the side of his throat, trying to hold the blood in. He could feel it pour between his fingers, like a twisted hourglass counting down the seconds until he was done for, he could feel the wheeze of air escaping the closest exit rather than inflate his lungs.
He was bleeding out, suffocating, and Tim was escaping.
He’d failed, again.
His body struggled, trying to wheeze in breath as his vision danced, speckled and darkened. He could barely feel the pain, and his hearing was clouded. He may have heard a clatter, but he couldn’t focus on it.
There was static. The comforting hum of T.V. static. Once his enemy, his fear, now brought him comfort. It was the only constant in his life, that static, that ringing, and Alex hoped it’d get him, get Tim, seek revenge.
Some say before you die your greatest memories bubbled to the surface to ease your transition into nothingness.
Rage bubbled in his weakened gut, and with one hand he’d tried to push himself up, to sit, a scream tearing from his throat, his hand falling from his neck. He was going to get them, he had to, this wasn’t fair. They’d caused this, he was going to end it.
Black seeped further and further into his vision, spots, tendrils coiling around as he heard less and less, only able to feel the empty in his lungs and the hot mess of blood across his body.
There was a white face before there was nothing.