I feel him surrounding me at all times, his black cape covering his slim face. His sickle pointed at my head, waiting for the moment I die in his grip. He waits patiently, always prepared for the my final dying gasp. One pill, two pills, twelve pills, nineteen. My body barely withstands the poison within me. How many more until he drags me to the underworld? I ask his shadowy figure, but he only replies with the sound of a howling wind. Does he watch me suffer in amusement or self-degrading hatred? Does he obtain the ability to feel anything at all? Empathy, love, sadness, or more?