This was sort of inspired by Supernatural; for those who watch it, I got to thinking about how Dean only has so much time left and it made me wonder about what he's feeling. It made me wonder about what any person with a terminal illness who will die prematurely is thinking- are they all REALLY ready to go and reconciled with their life like they always seem to be on medical dramas? Hence the creation of this piece; I don't think it's my best work, but I did enjoy writing it, so I hope that you enjoy it, as well .


He wonders how it came to this.

This sickness, this cancer of existence, this weakness, this failing, this pain.

He asks himself, no, he asks the universe, “Is this what dying is like?”

He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t know. He knows it better than anything else, but he doesn’t know how to admit it. He doesn’t know how to understand it; he doesn’t want to understand it.

He doesn’t want to accept it. He can’t accept it. He doesn’t want it to even be in the first place.

He doesn’t want it to happen this way. Not now. Not here. Not like this.

Not yet.

He always imagined that he would be old, successful, and blissfully married when it happened. He had always hoped that he would be asleep when his time came, that he would slip away when no one was looking or when everyone was asleep. He never wanted a big fuss; he never wanted the military funeral or the extravagant mausoleum. He just wanted to go quietly, so quietly that even he wouldn’t know it was happening.

Was it so much to ask? Was it such a crime for him to get one little thing he wanted, for once?

This can’t be it. This can’t be all. It’s too soon.

Not now. Not here. Not like this.

He has so much left to do, so much left to accomplish. He still wants to find the girl of his dreams, he still wants to have a baby, he still wants to go to Europe, he still wants to drive across the country… he isn’t done. His search isn’t over; he hasn’t done everything he wants to do.

How can it end like this?

Is this life? Is this all there is?

Is this it?

He doesn’t want it to be over. It can’t be over. It can’t end like this.

Not now. Not here. Not like this.

Days go by and death creeps closer to him. He can feel it crawling up his spine, wrapping him in thick black tendrils that sear into his every waking moment and his every nightmare. Pain becomes his constant companion as time blurs and runs together despite how desperately he wants to prolong it.

One more day. One more hour. One more minute.

It shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be this way.

Wracked with pain, he’s unable to do much else than think. He can do nothing but think about everything he did wrong, everything he never had the chance to do. Every single second he wasted.

Minutes turn to hours turn to days, precious days that are slipping away at an alarming pace. He doesn’t want this to happen, this shouldn’t be happening- it shouldn’t happen like this. It’s too soon.

Not now. Not here. Not like this.

Not yet.

He feels an unexplainable urge to write it all down, to put words to paper and attempt to convey to whoever may find his work what he’s feeling. He wants to write it down, he wants to let it all out, he wants to let someone in the future know to make the best of what time they have left, but he can’t.

If he writes it down, it will be real.

He doesn’t want it to be real.

He’s not ready for it to be real. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready.

It can’t be real.

It isn’t real.

This is what he tells himself as he lives out the days that shouldn’t be his last, as he laments every mistake he made and everything he didn’t do. However, the life he’s rapidly losing has a way of turning on him, and he soon finds himself collapsed on the floor of his dingy apartment with the carpet pressed into his nose and a rushing in his ears. The pain is everywhere, the pain is everything… and then there’s nothing.

Is this it? He wonders as sirens blare and strong, firm hands lift him up. He wants to scream, to cry out, to tell them to turn back. He wants to tell them to let him live out his last days in peace. Please, he begs, straining to say the words out loud but unable to coax his vocal chords into action, don’t let me die.

Not here. Not now. Not like this.

The next thing he knows, he’s lying on something firm and there’s a stinging sensation in the back of his left hand. He can hear the mechanical pump of some sort of machine, smell the potent odor of an antiseptic so strong his nostrils burn like fire. He struggles to move, to speak, but somehow he can’t and somehow he’s not really aware.

Somehow, he’s really not here at all.

Is this it?

One more day. Just one more day.

“Can he feel it?” a woman asks.

“Of course not,” a man responds. “The drugs should have taken care of the pain.”

They’re wrong. He can feel it.

He can feel everything.

Not now. Not here.

Not like this.

Not yet.


Thanks for reading ! I'd love some feedback, if you're so inclined!

I love it. I love to read pieces that make death sound poetic. It may sound strange, but that's me.

Wonderfully written, RabidAngel77 :thumb:

Amazing. I absolutely adore your writing style.

Thanks to both of you ! I've always been amazed by pieces that are subtly poignant, so I try to write in that sort of fashion. I like my work to be raw, if it makes any sense.

Reading pieces that make death sound poetic doesn't sound weird to me, babicatz. I actually enjoy reading the same sort of pieces and love to write them even more.