Mary lay on the bed, she knew she was dying. She had been dying since the day she was born, as we all are. People tends to ignore it, but every day of their life is one day less to live. However, Mary was dying for real. She could feel the icy hands of the death creep up her legs, heading to her heart, slowly, to make it stop. She had stopped fighting long ago, as soon as they had told her she had cancer. The doctors would tell her that there was hope, that the treatment would save her. She knew best, she was dying and she was going to die, no doctor could stop it. She was going to die because she had decided to. Mary was tired of life, it had never given her anything, only pain and despair, she thought it was fair for her to die and leave everything behind.
Mary lay on the bed, dying. She was alone. She had never had a family or any friends. But it was okay to her, she had death and that was all that she needed. She could feel how death was getting closer. It was already up her stomach. She expected it as if it was a lover, her only lover.
Mary lay on the bed, dead. Death had just kissed her lips, tenderly, icily, and took her away from her pain. She could see everything now. The nurses running to check on her, although she had told them thousands of times that there was nothing she wanted more than dying. How they covered her with a white sheet and took her out of the room. She didn't follow her body, she never had any interest on it while she was alive, she didn't see why she should have it now that she was dead.
Mary floated on the air, a spirit. Death had left her in that hospital room, with no indication of what should she do. There was no light, no darkness. There was no change except that she didn't feel pain anymore. What was she supposed to do next?
Mary remained in that room, forever. Her will to die had turned her into a spirit that would never move on. Into something that was condemned to experience every day into eternity. Never being able to rest.
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