Bare Silence
The bullet went straight through my skin. Lodged itself deep into my heart. Apparently they couldn't remove it, it was so deeply embedded. I couldn't feel it, I just felt normal. There were a lot of people standing round me, I thought they were doctors at first, but they weren't, they were my colleagues, the morgue technicians. With their white coats and their ridiculous goggles, I wondered if I had looked that ridiculous wearing those, did they think they were going to catch something, as far as I'm aware, there's no known disease to be caught from gun shot victims.
I feel, nothing, well, not nothing; but I know that I'm gone. It's like, floating, endlessly. They slide me away into the freezer but I still see, and hear the things around me. I'm dully aware of the cold, but it doesn't chill me to the bone, not like it did that night.
I hear things about it, people talking, discussing what happened. None of it makes sense, not what they are saying. They say things about Sherlock Holmes, how he was the last one to see me alive, how we were secretly together all along. None of its true, Sherlock was a just friend, that's all. And he didn't even arrive till afterwards, till after I was gone. I only remember because he gave me his coat, but I had already stopped feeling the cold.
I hope they catch my killer, you see the problem is, I can't remember who my killer was, and it was all so rushed. I had just stopped outside my flat. I think I dropped my door key, it was something stupid, something insignificant, I think I remember bending down, and then blinding light, think that was just the pain, but it could have been Lestrade in his car. My memories flood back to me know and then. In my own head I believe it to be one of the great ironies in life, the fact that I am now able to construct a mind palace like Sherlock's, simply because my mind is endless; however my mind is not called a palace, it is known as a morgue. For that is where my tale begins, and it is where it shall end.
My memories slip into my subconscious now and then, they take the form of fish, shoals of them passing through, artfully dodging away from my prying prefrontal cortex. Some days I worry as I start to forget more, names and faces shift back and forth in my brain, darting just out of reach, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, as no words shall ever grace my tongue again.
The other day I remembered something from long ago, a nickname I believe, Mousey Molly. And for the life of me (Ha!) I cannot fathom why, I'm pretty sure I didn't look like a mouse, but then again, I'm beginning to forget exactly what I do look like.
I do not hear the soft beeping of the machines at my bedside, or the soft grumblings of people passing by, for I believe I am dead, after all no one could survive a wound like that, could they?