There's lots of words and mumbling, but it means nothing to you. Nothing at all.
You flex. Tendons pull at fingers. Things shift uneasily somewhere inside you, you don't know where but realize it doesn't matter much now. Twitch sometimes, shoulder jerks up a little and eye blinks independently. That doesn't matter to you either.
You taste a coppery, salty thing that compels you to swish it around in your mouth. Turning over the liquid with your tongue reveals nothing. Waste of time. Swallow. Bitter, but you don't care. Better things to do. Can't waste your time. Can't afford to.
Solitude is something you consider before the words pick up again and you know they aren't yours. But maybe they are. You don't know if it's your voice or not because they're just words, and words are just things people use to talk to each other and you don't feel like talking to anyone. Without meaning words are nothing. Just sound. Unnecessary noise, like screaming when you're already dead. Whether or not you speak is inconsequential to your thoughts, so whether the words continue or cease won't make a difference to you, none at all.
Then again, not much matters to you anymore. You know that.
Weapons are something you don't have the luxury of carrying with you right now. You're used to the heaviness weighing you down a little, and now when you move you feel strange. Your mask is gone too. Before you left you looked at the mirror and saw green around your eyes, nothing else but tiny, barely traceable imprints around your brow where your skin refuses to resurface. And you feel a little naked now. If nothing else bothers you, this does somewhat. You're not used to feeling exposed. But it's okay. It'll be done with soon enough.
It's dark where you are, and when you turn your head there's a small light that draws you toward it. Somewhere in the back of your mind you feel like a moth yet you don't know why, but this is also irrelative and therefore has no meaning to you. You feel like laughing though you don't know what's humorous. Your jaw stays clamped shut not because you want it to but because it has to. The few thoughts flitting across your mind do not involve investigating the metallic device doing this, and so you ignore it and continue towards the light.
It gets bigger and higher up until you realize that it's a lamp hanging over a door. As you come to it you pause and the mumbling ceases. You can see now, but you knew what you were doing before, so it changes nothing. All that you can see is the door, painted red with chips of paint peeling from it. The light is small and illuminates but a small area around the door, and your eyes only spare a sweeping glance over the bleached bricks that surround it. A little plaque hangs by two screws, and the small inscription of the words, 'Einfaches Ende' is scribbled onto the golden plate that is out of place among the dead area.
You can't read it. Therefore it is nothing.
You raise your hand and the mumbling begins again, and now as your fingers rest on the knob you can see a small cuff on your wrist with broken chains that rattle and say things as you shake them. The flesh is oddly swollen around it and you wonder if you should be feeling pain. You begin to feel that you should allow more thoughts to enter your mind.
But this, as you know, will be your last memory.
You assure yourself that you truly care for nothing before pushing the door, entertaining thoughts of the old days when you cared for a lot of things and—