Hi, my name is Connor McDermott. And currently, I'm fucking dying.
You see, Death, in the form of some creepy looking old man, currently has me in a chokehold, and well it's the darndest thing, but…
I can't seem to get out. And he doesn't really seem intent on letting me breathe, so yeah. That's why I'm dying.
I really want him to go away, believe me, I do, but I don't exactly have the best range of motion at the moment. My neck is kind of being pinned against a boulder with a gigantic key. The only thing that I'm seeing is that old man, and even he's starting to look blurry.
It's so quiet.
It's so quiet that you can hear pebbles falling the longer he's pinning me to this wall. But inside, inside me, my mind was a nightclub, serving fear, adrenaline, and cyanide margaritas to all my brain cells. Whatever happens, I just don't want to die. Not to him. I don't want the last thing to smell to be my grandma's retirement home.
The crooked smile. The greasy facial hair. The wardrobe. The mouthwash-gargling voice. His physical strength. So much of him stood out so much from any other old person. And yet he still had the signature scent, only amplified, I guess since I'm running on pure adrenaline and all.
Shit, I guess this really is the end. I'm starting to lose consciousness; I guess I'll be seeing y'all later.
Actually, let me start over. I still got a bit of time, and this story is a bit confusing as it is.
