It hurts like hell, you know. Dying. A real bastard.
It's not like in those shitty sentimental movies where the main character - who is inevitably a massive prick - gets to say goodbye one last time to his girlfriend and they cry and say I Love You Dearest Darling at least twenty times before the bastard finally gets a move on and, you know, moves on. If you listen closely, over the sound of your own uncontrollable vomiting, you can hear him say something along the lines of, "It doesn't hurt. It's like falling asleep."
Maybe it's because I've only ever died those why-did-he-have-to-go, he-was-so-young, what-a-tragic, terribly-painful-accident type deaths before, but the dead pussy from the chick flick is always wrong. Dying hurts like hell.
It's better if it's sudden, like it was the first time I went. An unexpected fall from the roof of a building - speared through the chest by a wrought-iron fence - ah. That's the way to go. Just the feeling of falling - the knowing, for a split-second, that you are about to off it - and then an instant of pain, and it's all gone. Beautiful. Poetic, even.
Slow deaths, however, suck cock. Fist fight in an old locker room - won't go into any details about that - rammed into a wall - next thing I know, there's a nice long metal pipe protruding from my stomach. Took two hours for the damn thing to finally kill me. Hell of a time, let me tell you.
The part before I died - you know, that part where I'm just standing there with a pipe through my gut - is nothing new or special or unique just to me. There have been plenty of people who have been in that sort of situation. Take harpooning accidents, for example. And . . . I can't really think of any more. But you get the point. People have been stabbed before, though admittedly by less interesting things. Not many have lived to tell the tale, you know, having just been fatally wounded and all. But that's what I'm for, yeah? The little circus freak, rising from the dead to the amazement of the entire family!
Fuck, I make it seem so fine and dandy.
Anyway. When you're standing there, dying, at first it just fucking hurts. You can't breathe, you can't move, and these big waves of blood keep gushing out of your mouth. Real pretty.
There's about an hour of this, and then you start to feel it. Dying. Coming on slow and steady. It's like . . . when you've just stood up too fast, and for a moment you're completely incapacitated. You know that feeling, right? Vertigo. You can't see 'cos there's this psychedelic swirly shit everywhere, and you can't keep your balance, and all you want to do is just get the hell on the ground and stay there. Only, in any other circumstance, as soon as you drop, the feeling goes away just as quick as it came. And you stand up and go about your merry way.
Dying is like that, only it doesn't. Fucking. Stop.
It starts real soft, so at first you don't notice it . . . I'm assuming you're occupied with the bleeding and all . . . and then it creeps up on you, faster and stronger and more fucking annoying. It just keeps getting worse, until you can't stand the dizziness and you can't move your body and all you want to do is close your eyes and make it go away. Which is what you do. Because you are dead.
That's the worst of it. The knowing. Felling your organs shut down. Losing the energy to move, even just a bit. Losing the will to live. Coming to terms with the fact that that you're gonna die – gone forever, eternally, without end - and there's not a thing you can do.
Of course, after the fourth of fifth time, that last part gradually ceases to be the worst thing about dying.
Then there's that last minute. You can hear the angels calling out to you in an immaculate chorus, and Buddha whispers your name, arm and arm with Mohammed and the guy who founded Mormonism . . . . Nah, I'm just bullshitting you, you syrupy wanker. There's no warm fuzzy feeling as you feel Jesus' arms around you. Take my advice and learn not to swallow that religious bull; happiness and heavenly rest and all that shit. They don't know what they're talking about. Dying sucks through and through.
But the last minute probably sucks the most. You feel it coming on the strongest, and you can't move – there's just the waiting. Waiting while the actual goddamned life leaches out of your body. It doesn't really hurt any more by that point, but there's this god-awful feeling in the pit of your stomach - fairly sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you were just stabbed there - like you know there's something bad coming and you can feel it getting closer, even if you don't know what it is . . . . Fuck. I don't know. What else happens in that minute, I can't really put into words, perhaps other than that it's the worst fucking thing ever.
And then you die.
Just like that.
'Course, for me, there's always the waking up, which is equally shitty. It usually happens a few hours after someone takes pity on your poor sorry soul and bothers to remove whatever was stuck in you that was making you dead. Waking up is actually quite a bitch at first, 'cause for the first, eh, thirty seconds or so, you can't remember fuck. Not your name, or who you are, or how to speak or move or anything. There's just this . . . fear, you know? Like, dementor-stole-your-soul, scared-fucking-out-of-your-mind afraid. It's like the fear takes over everything. Like there's this big thing of blackness everywhere you look, and that's all you remember how to be, you know? Terrified. That's all you know. You wake up all of a sudden and your heart's beating too fast and every inch of you hurts and you can't catch your breath or remember where you are and who the hell is that blurry shape standing over you - and then in an instant it all snaps back. The black goes away. You remember, and everything's right as rain again. If you manage to keep yourself from screaming your head off before that moment, congratulations. You may actually be in a league with me.
It's easy enough to put on a show, act fine, but for the next few days you can just feel it – death, I mean, fucking lingering – right deep in your bones. You're slow as fuck and you're always hungry and your legs fall asleep every five minutes. It's absolute fucking bollocks at first, but about a week later, you're fine. Free to go jump off as many cliffs as you want, you daredevil bastard. Just expect dying to suck. Pain in the ass, dying is. Enormous fucking pain in the ass.
But at least you're lucky. You only have to do it once.