Prompt: The Last Seconds of your Life

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The tall dark man told me that I had ten minutes to live. He gave me a piece of paper, and told me to write. So where do I start? 

Do I thank everyone in my life that has given me a chance to grow as a person? What are the qualifications for those sorts of people? For the record, you helped me get here. I can’t stress how much I needed you in that crunch.  

Do I tell the people that I love that I love them? Perhaps, they already know and by the time that I finish writing this it’ll become something that’s too sentimental for the average human. For the record, I love you. 

What have I been doing up until this moment? Editing. Drafting. Practicing. Eating. Sleeping. And doing it all over again. I have 8 minutes left, so let me be brief. The tall dark man is pointing at the moon and showing me that there have been shades forming over the last two minutes.

If there was one last meal that I wish to have, it has to be a full three course meal, one breakfast, the next lunch, the next dinner. I’d want some French toast with bacon and scrambled eggs and a glass of orange juice. For lunch, I want a Reuben sandwich and some potato chips on the side. For dinner, I want to have baby carrots and hummus, something light because I have already ate like a king.

If there’s anything that I’m proud of, it’s that I’ve come to terms with the very nature that we all come to this part of our lives. I have to say, I thought that I was going to feel unresolved with all that has been in my life so far. But I have no regrets.

I don’t regret the late nights where I wrote too much and ignored everything else that needed to be done. I don’t regret leaving, because I came back in the end. I don’t regret the extra pint that I drank that one night where I ended up dry heaving for a good thirty minutes. All of these things were good to me. They taught me that I need to learn how to control myself. 

If there was one thing that I wish I could do right now it’s to spend time in a bedroom underneath three layers of comfy blankets. Such a thought reminds me of the first time that I came to you and felt warmth for the first time. It was spring when the wind crept into your windows, and left a scent of the sycamore. Those trees, those stupid trees. They never said that I would leave. 

It’s hot in here right now and the tall dark man is breathing just at my neck, letting me know that time is almost up. I have a minute left before I go somewhere beyond these walls. It’s a strange feeling. I wish I had . . . 

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