Funny thing, dying, staring in the mirror with a chain around my neck. I could see the metal cutting in against my skin, and the strain of the veins and tendons. I could look into my eyes and see the dark look, and the line of sun burn below the soft skin of the dark circles under my sleepless eyes. My mother used to tease me for that dark look in my eyes. I could see the hands coming out of the shadows behind me, the knuckles turning grey as they pulled the chain tighter. I wasn’t breathing. It’s a funny sensation, not breathing. Especially when I would give anything in the world to take a breath at this exact moment, but there is absolutely nothing I can do. I have no more tricks up my sleeve. All I have left is my dark look. That’s the one thing I don’t mind taking to the grave with me. As I look into the mirror, into my eyes, the melting mirror, the glass pounding, I feel drunk. My vision is like insanity, and perhaps every nearly dead man feels this same high. My eyes are rolling into my skull, my throat is choking against itself. My body is in panic, in revolt, twisting violently, taking orders from my heart only, my drowning heart, while my brain is already swimming. The throat is a very sensitive thing.
I’m awake and it’s black though my eyes are open. My body is asleep and my head is reeling. I’m getting up out of the floor by arching my back and stumbling to my feet. I make contact with a wall, then something soft, a body, then a fist attacks my face and at the same time I’m becoming aware of the sweat dripping from the raw skin around my neck, and wonder if it’s not sweat but blood and perhaps I should taste it to make certain. The blackness is becoming a realization that there is still something around my neck, another chain, but this one is attached to a black sack over my head. This must be the cause of my vision impairment. I move my arms towards my neck in order to free my head, but come to the sudden notion that perhaps I’m handcuffed and the metal noise and connectivity of my wrists confirms this. I’m sprawled out on the floor again with my nose bleeding this time from the punch to my face. I’m wondering how I got up the first time with such precise agility because no matter how I squirm on the floor this time I can’t seem to get a footing. I begin to feel like a fox with his foot caught in a string.
(I am going to continue this I believe…I do like it so far.)