In Hopes That It's Real

First to go was Touch.

This was actually quite a slow process. The thought of time floated somewhere in the back of his mind, but it was quickly pushed away by memories that rose up to the surface of his mind as his breathing became labored and harsh, rasping out through lungs beginning to drown in blood slowly, so slowly. It was his body slowly collapsing in on itself that made it so hard for him.

Although his body was numb, he could feel his lungs burning for air, feel his body drowning in something of its own necessity. His eyes rolled around, catching views of memories and dark alleys, until his head lolled to the side, and he stared out at his hand, which clutched blankly up at the air, something red dashed across it. From his mouth escaped a groan, although it might have been a scream suffocated with the heaviness welling up in his chest and his brain. He stared down at his hands, and, it seemed, they were moving so slowly forward, and, oh, he was falling down backwards, like something out of a movie where everything was slow-motion. He couldn't feel when he lost his balance, nor recall. He couldn't even feel as the wind gently prodded at his back, blowing his shirt against him, beating it red with his own blood. He couldn't feel when he hit the ground.

His eyes stared straight up again and his arms seemed to be reaching out for the stars high above him over the edge of buildings, just clinging to the horizon, looking just like dots on a blackened background in his blurred vision. His vision bounced slightly, too, as he hit the ground, then his arms came down, spreading out at his sides like the wings of a bird, ready to take flight and just waiting for that moment, that single jump that could send him high off into the clouds, as far or as high as he wanted to go, but all the sky they found was concrete, and, even then, they denied that peaceful heaven, and they drew more into his sides. He could only silently hear, distantly, how his own head the pavement, and for a moment, the singular thought flashed through his mind, that that couldn't be him. That couldn't be his skull making that noise, no, because this wasn't happening to him.

Then it was Taste.

Just in time, too, because that was when the blood came bubbling out his mouth, spilling over the very pale edges that were his lips, but he could smell it. It smelled like nothing he had ever smelled before, even after years of what he did as a living. This… it was rich, fresh and intoxicating, while all at once perturbing, but this wasn't him that had this happening to him, so it was all okay. He could hear someone step slowly up next to him, and his arm, ever so slowly, like it knew already, knew that it truly was him, reached out, searching for a lifeline. It found a pant-leg and tugged gently, weakly, just with the weight of his arm and no real force.

It was then he lost Smell.

He was both glad and disappointed that the scent of blood left, and although he felt at ease, he couldn't feel anything. His eyes rolled again, searching for something, desperate, someone to blame and something to cling to, because it was him, it really was him, and he needed something, because why him? Oh, if he could just go back, go back and fix this, take the day off like he originally wanted, and, god, he would give anything to fix this. More memories flashed in front of his eyes, each Christmas and his first New Year's when he could drink and the first time he drove a car and faces of people and places and things that he would never again recall while his vision became hazy, ascending slowly to black, although perhaps that was really only his eyelids covering his eyes, and why bother? Why bother at all?

Then went Hearing.

It was pointless to fight it, he had nothing anyway, he had no lifeline, because that leg was moving, slowly and steadily, moving away, and he could feel something he had never felt before, something calm and at ease and all he can hope is that he wouldn't rise again because he's okay, just content, as he saw those red lights flash across the walls of the alley, lighting up and disappearing countless times, and just in time too…

And went Sight.

Just in time, now, with his white shirt dyed forever blatantly red, his skin forever broken and never again bruised, his eyes closed, his mouth closed too, and just in time, because he knew… at the end…

The last thing to go was his breath.