She lay down on the bed, watching as the leaves dropped and birds flew by. The clock ticktacked, filling the room with dread. Dreadful thoughts ate her alive like any other day, though it was not your usual déjà vu at all. Her mind was her journal, remembering every detail, every occasion—and it was a curse from the devil, not a gift from God.
She wanted to escape her thoughts, and her eyes drifted from the windy window to the poster she had hung up years ago: Memento Mori.
She laughed and thought, “Maybe I should have,” murmured in her mind.
Ah, she gave in to her mind again, let it win. Again! It lived inside her, never leaving her side, not even for a moment—but it was nothing monstrous to the eye.
Escape; it was her only wish. She tried to get up, to run, but her body resisted.
Oh well—it was not her body that resisted.
It was just her finale.
Just like she wanted, right?
But she lost to it, didn’t she, in this fight?
