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The sky is midnight blue, and stars dot it white; reminiscent of dust motes shifting aimlessly as if they aren't massive balls of gas, vital to life. You feel almost hopeful as you gaze up. Dead tree branches mimic you, their wooden fingers raised in deference to the sky, begging for a second chance at life.
You feel optimistic. A cigarette smoulders between your fingers. But there is a pressure in your chest, for some reason, maybe the smoke? You can’t talk. But that’s okay. You’d rather not at this moment. Maybe passing strangers venture too close, maybe they look at you weirdly, but you do not interact. Speeding up as a woman and her dog inch closer, you keep your eyes fixed upon the ground.
It is just a coincidence. She is going the same way. To reassure yourself, you take a couple of erratic turns. She follows you on every single one. Her face is strange. Something both not there and there. Beautiful but damned in its ugliness.
You attempt to run, but it feels like your limbs are deactivated. You sink into the ground, down into the soft ferns and crunching scorched leaves. It is a friendly sinkhole. She is unrelenting. You fight your way out of the sink hole and begin to run again.
Mouth opening in a soundless scream, you double over. It feels like someone is squeezing your throat. It hurts to try produce a sound that is not coming out. She is closer.
A gun is in your hand. You don’t know from where, but you are glad you have it. She stops in her pursuit. You turn and meet her eyes—full of a fear you do not understand. Her dogs neck catches on the leash as she tugs it back suddenly. You press it at your temple.
“Ne… Ne palauk!”
Why does she so fervently rebuke your act of suicide?
You shoot her dog, a bullet hole oozing blood between its eyes, then you shoot yourself. You had pressed the muzzle up against your chin.
But strangely, you are not watching from your body at this moment. You are in third person. You watch your own blood seep metallic into the overgrown forest floor.