He stood up from his bed and walked slowly towards the bathroom. Every step made his swollen feet feel like they were filled with hot lead. He reached the bathroom door, groped the wall for the light switch and a flood of yellow-orange light filled the whole place. He walked towards the sink, turned the faucet on and splashed his face with water. It was cold and refreshing, just what he needed, he took a towel off a hook and dried himself with it. When he was done, he stood there staring at his reflection in the dirty mirror. What he saw was not how he pictured himself. He was still not used to what he looked like. All his life, he was as healthy as a , he thought of himself as a tall, large healthy looking man, with a big belly and a full face. Not this ghost of a man, staring at him. Pale skin, hollow eyes with dark circles around them. He lost almost a third of his mass. What's left was a lot of saggy skin and wrinkles. It seemed to him that even his hair had grown whiter. He looked a lot older than he was. He didn't look intimidating anymore, but still, he thought he looked scary. He went back to bed thinking of his disease It Started almost a year ago. A little nausea from time to time, some head aches, but mostly difficulty in breathing. He tried resting more, taking what medicine he had for coughs and sleeping it off. Thinking one day he'll just wake up back to his healthy normal self. Nothing worked. He started getting weaker and weaker and finally he thought he was never getting better and and just like that, he accepted it. He figured it was nature taking it's course, and he was gonna die of what they called "natural causes". He wanted to know what this natural cause was. He went to a hospital to get checked-up. Cancer was what the doctors were calling it. That's my zodiac sign, he thought the first time he had heard of the disease. The doctor said that it had spread all over his lungs. He imagined tiny crabs crawling around and multiplying inside him, eating the air he breathed in. With something that looked like sadness and compassion in his eyes, he told him there was no cure and that he probably only had a few months left to live. He wasn't afraid to die, he was old, he was ready for that. but the thought of all those tiny crabs made him started coughing horribly in his handkerchief in an effort to get them out. He thought he had succeeded when he saw tiny red spots on his white handkerchief but they just turned out to be blood. When the doctor had calmed him down and asked him what was wrong. He told him he was trying to get the crabs out. He gave out a little chuckle and a snort like he was stopping himself from laughing. He must've thought he was a senile old man. He is not, he has never felt more "sane" than when he goes out for the kill.