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He briefly wonders if this is how it ends.
Cough.
He’s angry. He always imagined that if he actually died, it would be more creative.
At least he’s going to die flashily.
A last cry for attention. „He died doing what he loved” they might say sarcastically. But they wouldn’t dare, no one speaks ill of the dead.
Well, Wilson might.
There are sirens outside. Someone noticed the cry.
No, he thinks. This is not how he’s going to die. Help is so close.
Cough.
He’s not going to die this way.
Pain. Pain. Pain. Just a little bit more pain and then it’ll be over. He’ll be looking at his would-be death place from outside.
And then what? He stops.
Cough.
Six months with no one.
And when he gets out - still no one.
Isn’t it better to end this now, while he still has someone? End this when it’s not only the bitterness that’s left?
Pain. Physical? Emotional? It all blends together. He’s got to decide now, or it’ll be decided without him. And he knows what the decision is.
The never-ending pain decides for him.
He sees the two figures outside and knows who they are. It’s not even deduction - it’s instinct.
He looks up and next. He sees what he’s looking for. Perfect. He smiles - somehow.
Four seconds.
Gets closer to the door.
Two.
Reaches for the doorknob.
He missed by a second. It doesn’t matter.