Eighty-Sixed?

If you could only see the light in my eyes flicker out, witness the life as it leaves my floating form; each blink a memory, a parting glance. I must be crying. I taste salt. Maybe it’s only the waves breaking over my head. It hurts like hell. But I guessâÂ?¦ dying should hurt. It’s cold. I force the pain to the pit of my stomach, push upward, and draw another ragged breath. God, it hurts, breathing water.

Say you love me. Ah, you’re too late. The heart is the first to go. And now even my senses are numb. The pain obliterates all else, but a figment of you. I’m tired of waiting; I haven’t the time left. I’m leaving you the only way I know how. Say you want meâÂ?¦ to stay. I can’t, not even for you. I’ve done more than can be undone, gone too far. I hurt myself today, I no longer need you. You’ve been replaced. I’ve finally found a hurt that outweighs what you put me through. I’m spinning. So cold in hereâÂ?¦ The pain, ah! My mind sloshes. My ears pop. No wonder its called death.

Strange thoughts float through one’s mind as you lay dying. “Why is it called eighty-sixed,” I wonder, “when something is discarded, axed? Why didn’t I wear my swimming cap?” I hate it when my hair gets wet and stuck in my eyes. Silly things, really, to wonder about now. The mind is a funny place. I find myself concerned with who’ll win the Boat Race this year. I think, the dark blues have gotâÂ?¦.

My toesâÂ?¦ are blue, like the ocean around me – at times over me. A loss in circulation, I suppose. My breathing has slowed, shallow like you. I hope you find me. I’m tempted to stay around to see the look on your face, but I won’t. Will you get the story right when I’m found? How will you adjust the details of this to favor you? Can you? Death is in the details. And I’ve made certain, you cannot erase mine. Oh, the publicity! You’ll hate it, and despise me, again. Alas, we’ll be even. All along, I’ve repaid you in kind.

Vincero! One last dip under should do it. I feel the depressants taking hold. Even were they to kick in too late, the slit wrists should finish it. My life is flown out. You’ve lost me for good. Oh yes, my dear, I’ve won this time. The last battle, Pyrrhic victory though it maybe, is mine.