Dying Dream

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DOWNTOWN, OUTSKIRTS
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--Patty
Everything in her screamed.

Patty could not vocalize. There was no choice, there was no fighting back. Her life was forfeit, and she had no say in the matter. That did not make the pain lessen any, and the stabbing sensation spread like a ice through her veins. It was so cold, the kind of cold that set in your bones and made every motion ache. Every beat of her heart sent a shockwave through her brain, the blood pulled from her vital organs moment by moment.

It fought back. Going into shock, lips turning blue. Her heart beat faster and faster, a rabbit trying desperately to pull away from her rib cage. Pressure fading, punching away at unconsciousness. Her headache grew until it was blinding, white light replacing darkness and every second taking hours in her mind. Mouth so dry, so desperate for a drink. Limbs are cold, numb. They refuse her command to struggle, and her lung flutter with the rattle of death.

Her mind was a horror show, but in some macabre play where she couldn't understand the rules. Everything was startling, and everything unpleasant. Her face was locked in a rictus grin, and in her mind's eye, it felt as if her limbs bent and resisted movement. Jagged, like branches of a tree with leaves of blood falling from her fingertips. Long threads of crimson and black pull from her eyes into a long strand that leaves a webby residue where it falls. The bloody tree limbs cling to the endless red light pouring from her chest, ripping it open to reveal the burning heart of Christ. She holds it, and it's warm. It's warm, but fading. Nothing made sense. Nothing makes sense. Endless twilight about her. And the flame of Christ extinguished in her heart, and it burned no more.

Her body had fought the good fight, but it was over. The terror of impending death faded, faded, fading into a lethargy that coolly drags her beneath the sea of sleep. Patricia didn't wish to leave. She didn't want to leave them now.

But the choice had been made for her.