What is real?
The blood dripped from my wounds and stained the paper I was writing on. Gleaming bright red, it almost looked fake, like an obscene smile painted on a clown.
It spread on the paper like a crimson tide, extending its arms, engulfing the words I just wrote. The blood was real, and I felt myself weaken.
The stillness of the room allowed my thoughts to float freely. If I die today, would it matter? How do I know this isn’t just a dream? From my window, I saw the clouds drift in an impossibly blue sky.
I had gone to a different world in suspended animation. Everybody else seemed light years away, and certainly out of arm’s reach. The photographs on my table shone like dead stars- I was looking at the past, of happier times, which were long gone.
I’m dying. I thought. This is real.
The sickly sweet coppery odor of blood filled my nostrils, suffocating me. I scrambled for the telephone, and as I did, I knocked over the blood-stained blade.
I saw it fall, forever, in an endless pirouette. It never hit the floor.