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As I lie on the floor with my slicked back black hair, my pupils dilated with such force as a wild cat, I slowly slip into subconscious silence. I am drooling. I am breathing, breathing silently yet so loudly as my vision fades.
I am dying.
Spamton G Spamton himself is dying.
Death is a bizarre concept in itself. A displaced enigma humans dwell upon as they slowly reach their final moments, deciding which option sounds the most peaceful to their subconscious.
Heaven? Reincarnation? Maybe empty space?
There is nothing for me unfortunately.
I was a star. I was the biggest thing on Earth.
I took a 600mg bottle of ibuprofen. Two of them, actually. It was like swallowing belief, swallowing something real.
I can’t move. I can’t see. My ears are ringing, all I can do is think about what happened today.
But I don’t remember.
I don’t remember where I am? My dressing room? My apartment floor? Where am I?
Am I in Heaven? Is Heaven real? Will the doctors write my time of death with black or blue ink? Will the coroner’s connect me to another statistic describing millions of citizens across the world? What will happen to my flesh and blood when I pass on? Do I get an urn? A wooden casket with my worldly possessions in a velvet box?
I’m not handsome. I’m not smart or funny. I’m not likable. Everyone could— No. Everyone is better than me. I’m nothing but an unforgivable mess, drooling on the floor, spit mixed with blood as my body slowly collapses, the drugs mixing with my soul as I pass on from pain to peace.
Hello Heaven. I see your light. It’s bright.
Goodbye.
I’m so excited to see Spamton today. I finally finished those special episodes he wanted to incorporate into the main series. I hope he likes it. I worked really hard.
I opened the door, it was very bright outside. Why are his lights off?
“Hey, Spamton? I finally finished those reports you asked for. Do you—“