Me again. This will be the last time, I guess. Because the pain is dulling my fingers and brain. Soon I can’t write any more and I’ll be able to think only about the pain.
I’ve understood that you’ll never come here to support me. It won’t matter. I’ll die anyway. I have given up. I don’t care anymore.
Funny.
I never gave up before. I always hoped that somehow I’d survive. I knew that this was never going to happen, but I still hoped. And now Death is waiting behind the door and I don’t care.
Noone will read it, am I right? You’ll grab these papers and you’ll throw them into fire because there might be some kind of disease. And my last real thoughts will be destroyed. Is it a pity or not? I mean, noone really knew me and so noone wouldn’t care. But on the other hand... these are my thoughts. I am selfish, I want them to stay here after I’m gone.
Hell, it’s not possible to read this thing. Blood is dropping onto the paper, I’m smudging it over the writing. It gets messed with the ink. So the paper is covered with purple liquid. There is nothing to read. There is nothing to read.
I will be nothing, I’ve understood it. I had a short life, nothing special, but it was mine. And now it’s ending.
Why couldn’t it be easy? Why can’t I pass away fastly? Why am I suffering like this?
Noone answers, as the pain is ripping my stomach into little pieces. There is no answer.
Gheys.
You will not come and I’ll die alone.
Right now. The pain is crippling me as it has never done before, I can’t see nor think.
Gheys? Farewell.