Life in Numbers: This fic is dark and graphic. Scenes of violence and abuse will be explored. If you are not comfortable with such scenes, I humbly suggest reading elsewhere.

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Growing up, I'd never given much thought to how I would die.

It always seemed morbid; pessimistic; depressing… all around unrealistic.

Why would I dwell on my inevitable death, when I had so much life left to live?

Three years ago, that changed. Three years ago my life was stolen. No, not stolen. It was surrendered. I lost myself, my future, my present, my love… my life. And what did I have left, other than my past?

Now, as I lay on the cold concrete floor, drifting in and out of consciousness, I can't help but dwell. It's time to consider that question. Was this how I would die?

A resounding yes echoed through my unstable mind.

If you had asked me three years ago if my death would involve any one of the several circumstances surrounding my current precarious conditions, I would have laughed. The idea would have been wholly unrealistic; impossible. I was on top of the world, ready to take it on in stride. Eager to learn and to succeed. Eager to live.

I feel my throat groan and manage to force my arms to cooperate. They burn, as does every other cell in my body. I cannot concentrate on the pain. I know if I let it, it will consume me. And I'm not ready just yet.

With some effort, my palms are flat against the ground. The ground, which I can vaguely recognize as smeared with blood. My blood. My body coughs involuntarily and I can feel the bile rising in my throat. It will come any second now, and I need to move myself so that I don't end up dying in a flood of my own vomit.

I push myself up on my hands, slowly straightening my elbows. Pain doesn't begin to describe the sensation that courses through my body. It comes from deep within my bones, through my muscles and my veins. Through my flesh, begging me to give in. The pain tries to encompass me, but I don't let it. I can't let it.

When the coroner washes the blood from my face, I don't want it to be mixed with my vomit. I know it's a strange thing, this desire, but I want to save my corpse this one last humiliation.

God knows it'll be the only shred of dignity I can spare for myself.

In the background, I can hear voices. They're distant, they're mixing together, and I can't make out a single word. No, all of my concentration is on relocating my body. All of my strength, my focus, goes into this one last act.

I look up and see the tiled wall before me. I can hear water running. I can hear shouting. Feet shuffling. More shouting.

The grout between the tiles blends, and I can no longer see the distinct squares. I can't open my eyes far, but they're open enough to know that the world is spinning circles around me.

And the pain is shifting into a dull throbbing all over as my body adjusts to it.

And the bile is still coming.

Faster, now.

For all my efforts, my chest is still merely inches off of the floor. I'm shaking, and the slick effect that my blood has created is making the task of lifting myself all the more difficult.

I can't see. I can't move, and I can't hear. And I know that I'm almost beyond feeling. For all intents and purposes, I'm already dead. Everything within me is revolting against me, shutting down organ by organ as the last of my senses eludes me.

My torso is almost a foot from the floor now. How much time has passed? The shouting is nearing. The vomit is, too.

For all this, though, I can't regret the things that brought me here. While I might have handled things differently, might have waited and thought things through, or might have practiced more self control that night, I can't regret it.

I did what I knew had to be done. And the monster had deserved it. The monster had earned what it had received, and although my actions put me in this shit hole, the monster had been punished.

I owed it to her. To Alice.

Her image is in my head and I would smile if it didn't hurt. If there is a pretty picture to die to, it is one of my beautiful sister's laughing face.

I feel something hard and heavy draped over my shaking body. The fabric burns me and I can't hold it in any longer. I'm grateful for my enforced diet in that moment. It's the first time I can feel anything but loathsome toward it, but it makes the vomit come up easily.

I look to the floor that is covered by my insides with blurred vision. More red. My fate has been sealed. Of course, I sealed it on my own volition, but it is sealed tightly. The red promises me one thing: that my end is nearing.

I can feel a gurgling noise coming from my throat and I want it to stop. I'd do anything to make it stop. It's not pleasant death music. I suppose it's poetic, though. Ugly music for an ugly situation. And ugly situation for an ugly life. I will see the monster in hell; I know this.

I try to move myself so that when my arms give, I do not fall into the mess I've created. And I did create this mess, rest assured.

I don't blame anyone but myself. I know why I am here and I know why I am here.

I deserve this, just as the monster before me deserved it. And I welcome it.

It has, without a doubt, been the most unimaginably difficult three months.

But I don't have time to reflect on my wrongdoings, and those few things that I did right, as I can feel the muscles in my arms beginning the fail.

With one last effort, I try to distance myself from the coated concrete. It's futile. Pain shoots through my limbs and I can't hold myself up anymore.

I deserve to die in a pool of my blood and bile. With a sense of finality, I realize that I cannot spare my body that last humiliation. It doesn't even matter. I feel my body dropping quickly and I gasp, the pain returning with the impact. My eyes close as my cheek presses into the floor.

I give in to the darkness that's begging to take me.

~*~