“This,
—is Oblivion.”

A short writing speculating one's last breathe.

Thin strands of droplets wet the earth far outside wide pellucid glass panes to my right. Each second ticking on the thin arm of the wall-clock pulled a ribbon of showers beneath a dull, nondescript overcast blanket of exhaust smoke, joined into one continuous stretch that sheltered the earth as a recognized ceiling. My muffled ears chime into the toneless orchestra of nature’s tears. Winter is coming to a final end. The earth is tucking away it's gentle vanilla coating above it’s once flaunted greenery. Soon to stain the bleak outdoors I long to wander soon, would be florals of diverse coloration. Beneath a chest in my mind composed of aged experiences and framed memories, they bud and they bloom. Within this moment of translucent emotions, a part of my decelerating heartbeat wonders when I will pluck the blossoming land once again. Lilies—I want lilies. I wish to inhale the fresh scent of it’s budding innocence that carries this melancholic nostalgia I would sometimes taste in the sweet treat gifted to me on the second month of a new year. Chocolates. 

Folded between unpleasant seams; soaked in acidic hospital fragrances, a stuttering pang I take minimal notice of escapes my parted lips. Evacuated emotions slumbered beneath my parents eyes meet my numbing figure. From the pits of my voiding disposition, I find my final wish to be that an etched smile will give them the understanding relief that I will soon be sleeping—at last. However, their evident frowns say otherwise. A frigid clutch embraces my frail bones moments before my parents could reach me; my best friend's arms. Soft whispers breathe into the space between his face and my ear. Though, I can barely make out what he's trying to tell me. 'Don't go' was it? I'm confused. Don't go, where? His hold becomes stronger, and I respond. Though, I can't exactly hear what sentences my moving lips are managing to form.

Squeaking across the soiled tiles, approaching the wrinkled side of my cramped bed, precarious footsteps; cloaked in fear. Despite each inching second which carries the two who've cared for me since I was a pitiful child, in closer proximity to me, their presence seems to become less prominent in effect. Unrealized eternal rest embraces my withering soul and washes away my fifteen years of lonesomeness with delicate contact, just as the rain washes the earth. My parents must've been notified by the hospital of my decaying state, for they weren’t here just a few hours earlier—or the day before, neither a week. Rather they were working, as I was dying. Don't misunderstand, I'm not bitter. I don't think. However, there are a number of stories I wish to tell my mother; from the kindhearted nurse who brought me delicious foods, to the sweet feathered creature which sang to me on sunny mornings. Along with it were the many lame jokes I'd created as I listened to the emptiness of my room. I would give anything to see my father throw his head back and laugh at the horridness of them. I know they aren't funny; but that's the kind of father he is. 

A warm breathe, full of suppressed emotions trickle down my neck. Why is it he's trying so hard to be strong? Emptiness and nonchalance sweeps over my face as the realization of the moment gradually seeps in. Fear seems to rise behind my eyes. Like a caged animal, I lay. In my best friend's arms, paralyzed by my tragic terror of isolation, I close my eyes and blink into a stretch of nothingness. Warmth threatens to curl out of my lids, and I can't understand why I force them not to stream. A soft voice I forget to recognize echoes, 

"I will die." 

Who is it? Was it such a quiet whisper not even my parents and best friend could react? Maybe they're too exhausted to react. Yes, that must be it. It's a familiar voice, however. Or perhaps it is familiar because it's a whisper from a fading space of my mind which kept me up many nights prior. Could it be—am I dying? It isn't that I wasn't expecting this. No, quite the contrary. I've been in this sour room for more weeks than I can remember. But; am I dying, now? It isn't that I haven't come to terms with death—or perhaps this fear in my trembling chest, the blistering windage of clockwork in my head, is telling me; I really haven't. Am I not ready? 

Through invisible wires groping at me, the soul which lays rest in my hard vessel begins to release into the atmosphere—and to my surprise, it isn’t as malicious and tainted in soot as I always joke it to be. What a pleasant surprise. I begin to list the order of which I mark my corporal physiological responses to fade into oblivion. First, my legs which I'd long lost the ability to shift against the rough sheets beneath me, second—my fingers which no longer yield the ability to curl, third my upper torso which once was capable of so much more than stiffness—and last, my hearing. My hearing; which had heard many terrible words—just as much as beautiful ones, maybe even less. 

Brightness that once glazed over my pupils a few seconds prior goes obscure and dark, clouded—as though someone held up an object too close for my pupils to distinguish. Each corner of my mouth—which had been used over countless intervals to express monstrous ideas, begins to quiver from it’s forced reassuring smile I forget I was wearing. Wandering towards the safe hold of my disintegrating mind, blackened walls begin to climb down and reveal an empty scape of white. Within the split second I assume to be before my last breathe, moments of my life flicker through galleries of generated photographed memories—some which I'm unsure if they'd for certain took place or I was simply imagining them. There were many times I'd end on all fours, with the force of a boulder crashing upon my suffocating side as tears dampened my face; a part of me wondered if I'd die drowning. Along with it were times of pure laughter possessing my lungs. Moments where I could barely contain my broad smile while I clutched onto my best friend for support. I'll miss the moment I crawled outside the small square of my bedroom just to lay around with him. For once, I'll reminisce over the idiotic arguments we had over small subjects such as food. I'm going to miss that moronic cocky grin of his. I'll miss it all. From here, far away, in the air I breathe, memories of summer; I will never forget. 

Why do I want lilies? Maybe, if I were the one picking the delicate lilies it would be for someone else’s farewell—not mine. However my hesitance of longing fades once warming streams can no longer be chained back behind shear force. With a thin brush, they paint down my pale cheeks and soon puddle into the detailed cave like crevices of my ears. Maybe, I'm ready to say good-bye after all. No longer fending back the confusing tears coating the crowns of my brooding—near black eyes I sometimes catch in a pale caramel discoloration, I conceal my whisper in a croak more silent than the hinge of an unfit door leading to my quaint bedroom I will never see again, “beautiful.” 

And so I smile in an ever so faded manner as death cradles me close with the scent of lilies dancing on inconspicuous strands between the folds of it’s hospitable warm cloak, “this," 

  "—is oblivion.” ­