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Written Dreams Of The Defeated
A Blackwood Article Intitled "Sinking"

The dampening light hung draped over the walls and table sitting like cobwebs being drawn by wind, waves of gentle light, from their source the small illuminating candles. The only sound was the almost distant steady dripping. The flickering light bounced off his silver cutlery sitting to the right his plate, directly under his forearm. Across his plate lay an empty seat again, the food on the plate was now cold and starting to collect flies, he could almost smile at the irony. Despite the fact of being raised of good posture and correctness he himself sat with both elbows propped up on the table, hunched over his plate, and holding up his head with his face in his hands.
The glass of red wine sat at his fingertips, it had grown to look so different to him then how it did so many years back. Now it lingered in the corner of his eye, so longing, so impatient, it had seemed to become demanding and forceful. Yet still no matter what it could convince him to do he always longed for that one last drink. But being a good understanding woman his wife would always forgive him after any such event set about by his doings that would bring her pain. When did she become so misunderstanding, when had she become so angered and violently opposed towards him …… or maybe … when had he?
So many of his evils resided in that drink. At this he begin to cry… not as one who would cry and sob as so to make noise, For that he could no longer, but the kind that is soft and only could be distinguished by the tears and red pain born in one’s eye. His tears felt warm and trickled down sliding across his cheek, dripping across the back of his hands, running down his forearms. The tail of his tears, warm and slightly comforting, felt strange and foreign to the cold pale skin of his face. Most wouldn’t see anything odd for some one of age or a sickly position to posses skin so weak and faint, but oddly enough that wasn’t the case, this man is certainly not of any old age or sickness. He sits perched on a wealthy inheritance, clean-shaven and well dressed, in his early thirties and of full youth and health. So understanding the circumstance one could find such imagery hard to portrait without coming to some vast incorrect yet understandable story to illuminate cause.
A red film layered the knife that lay out of reach in front of him. So tempting did it looked in his sad eyes. If he could only end the inevitable, if he was only able to quickly end his misery. Death is one thing, to wallow in it not yet dead is a complete opposite even a quick suicide (no matter how painful) is more peaceful then one that is slow, for instance one’s memories, regrets, or more generally ‘life’ cannot pass through you mind or taunt you as you die if there is a bullet in your head. Especially if you make it a point to think only what your doing and absolutely nothing else, But then it is a sin and one should spend an eternity in hell for such an end, as if he would care for that now.
On his plate his food, like the knife, was drenched in his blood. His last meal soaked in his own dieing blood. As he slipped into death the flies would find a new perch laying their eggs in his flesh as they now did to his wife’s dinner. He would be presented to them, as his estate would be to his wife, on a silver platter. The side of his cheek still felt warm from his wife’s good-bye kiss, he hadn’t know it would happen but in his heart when he had looked into her eyes deep down in his soul he knew. And so as it happened he felt no surprise, or anger, or even remorse as he slowly started to bleed out.
Now it was becoming more difficult to breath making the dieing less tolerable and so to make himself more comfortable in the case he leaned back into the strength of the

Chair tilting his head back, exposing his neck, and letting his arms hang at his sides without resist. A shudder came over him as the stale air grasped at his neck.

The cut ran across his throat splashed and specked with red. The color in his face and skin continued to drain out onto the front of his shirt and clothes. The wound was thin but deep and an attempt to slow it would be useless, sensing it was a rather clean cut, with his body in shock; it did not hurt or bring much more pain than a large paper cut. If he had been already drunk and not for the blood he would not have even noticed his dieing, he would have begun his normal day and gone asleep on the couch (as feeling suddenly weak and faint) to not wake up, finally and truly dead.
He could feel the cold of the wound and the wet of the blood running from it, as he exhaled the air did not reach his lips but escaped from the cut in his neck creating the faint hoarse wheezing breathing he would have to stand for the remaining time in his life. With he remaining strength he made sure to hold his head a certain way to keep himself from bleeding to much into his throat, he would have had to either swallow the blood or have it sit in his lungs to slowly drowned him, at times he would uncontrollably cough in struggle to breath and would then disgust himself as he spit it up… the thick red fluid spurting out his throat.
Thought began to recall the things he only now appreciated and held as the real gifts of life, the family and true friends that he held dear in his younger years. The petty arguments he used to knowingly and ignorantly push them from his life. If he only could take back those years if he only had not left them in such anger. But now all that is done with as it always is and always will be. Remembering his last word now began to comfort him, as his eyes closed he remembered looking into his wife’s and forgiving her and giving his blessing to her …and her other lover before she slit his throat, he also remember only by force what words she had whispered hesitantly in his ear as the blade ran through his throat, of all the things that she could have said to him, of all the things he knew she must have only dreamt of getting of her chest at that moment she had said the one that he had not anticipated, the thing that had brought tears to his eyes and emotionally chain him to the seat to die.
“I loved you.” She had said.
But reflecting anyone could say that his death was certainly the most peaceful, acceptable, and heartless way for her to kill him. He had been forced to reflect on life and hate himself and the world with all his regret as he wallowed his misery and self-pity, allowed no comfort or quick resolve toward his end. But besides even himself and his self-inflicting torment he couldn’t help also feel grateful for the death she gave him, one could emphasize the sensation as to lose all conscience, as if falling into the warm point between being asleep and awake, If one had know truly what drowning was then one could depict the sensation as being related near the end, as if all life was drifting into the strange dream that we have always called ‘death’. It was ultimately and deeply much like… sinking.

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