Alone

I have been alone for as long as I can remember.

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There has always been this emptiness in my chest. I had known from the very beginning that none of this was normal. The emotions that I felt, would always leave me before I could even get an impression of them. I would start to think about how much I hated being in my own situation, yet in the very next moment, I found no more reason to hate. Contemplating whether I should do something to change how I felt, yet not having the motivation to care in the very next instant.

I don't think that I have been able to feel what they call emotions for any longer than a single moment, a split second. Before it was all shut down, an experience that was truly off-putting.

It was like trying to grasp something, that would be forever out of reach, and then out of sight and then finally out of mind.

The lack of interest that would result from this was apparent.

Now though, now that I'm so close to the end, I think I feel it again. I remember once hearing that all the regrets would flash before one's eyes, at the moment before their deaths. I guess I am no exception.

The film of my life, or at least the parts I still remember, was a boring one. No one will remember me after my death, and I didn't care in the past.

For the past two years, I didn't really care if I lived or if I died. In the end, it was all the same. It was an inevitable outcome. However, at this moment, something changed. An emotion that I was still trying to figure out rushed into my chest and clenched my heart.

Tight, my chest felt so tight, yet I could do nothing about it.

I regret it.

Before I ever get to start regretting that I didn't do more, I begin to regret that I didn't even try, or start to try. What could have been different if I had started regretting before I had lost my only shot. I guess the first and last emotion I will ever get to experience, is despair.

I watched as these people walked past these dull streets every single day, accompanied by family, friends. The little kids often held the hands of their parents without another care in the world.

Why do I only think of these things, once I know I can't have them anymore?

They all look so happy. Happy? I wonder how that feels. I wish to be… happy. Can I? I wish I had time to find out what these words mean, but I guess this is it. Why do I only start to feel, once I'm already making my death bed?

The dim lights of the lamp posts on the streets got dimmer and dimmer by the second. Then, darkness took over.

What a dumb way to die.

***

The little child was shivering while hugging her short, thin legs. The child was clearly malnourished as her skin caved in, making her every visible bone prominent.

Her knuckles were white, from the force exerted by her small dirty hands. An unknown amount of time passed before those tiny hands loosen up until they finally had no force in them whatsoever.

All of the tension that had once been there, leaving along with the child's life, yet no one seemed to notice, nor did anyone care to notice.