She never thought much on what death would feel like.she always envisioned it as something she wouldn't face in a while- there was no point thinking about something that wasn't happening any time soon.
But now? Now she was laying on the floor of a damp cellar, her scars and her new found wounds stark against her pale skin. Her scars, some large, small, long- but all unique in their own right. All had a story attached to them that didn't fade, even when the physical proof of them did. Scars were a constant reminder of the stupid things she'd done- she loathed them with everything in her being.
But now she laid on the wet floor fantasising on what she could have done- what could have earned her a scar. A scar she could look at and think 'yeah. That was worth it' a scar that could reflect on something she loved
Maybe then she wouldn't hate her scars as much.
She found herself thinking about people's reactions- would anyone cry? Who would attend her funeral? When would people just stop looking?
These thoughts clouded the front of her mind while on her deathbed, while she embraced the seductive emptiness of death and whatever was laid for her beyond- because it was hard to dread death when you knew you wouldn't be missed.
It was hard to fear death, when you welcome it with open arms.
