|[45]|
Exsanguination might be a more precise, more clinical term, but I've always thought it sounds more graceful to say bled out.
Not that it's a graceful method of death-- well, to be fair, few are. Still. The first word is too harsh, too sharp, too clean; doesn't catch the meaning of the awful mess, the shock of watching it pool beneath you. Even a little cut can bleed so profusely; hot, sticky, blood takes up more space than it ought to. I hate it. The sight, the smell, the sour copper tang in the air, itching as it dries on the skin.
The second term may be too gentle. Life doesn't ebb out of the body, nor consciousness fade out to peace, as we might wish to tell ourselves. Heart drumming, it forces life swiftly from the body, and desperation to survive, to cling to consciousness, only speeds the process.
Still, I can't help but feel it was a better way to go than hypothermia. Your mind and body lie to you, then, and a false heat creeps through you, making you laugh through chattering teeth. I don't remember much of it, which is probably a kindness; too taken by numbness I doubt I died with any dignity. I never asked whether we spoke, and I think it's for the best. I don't want to know what I might have said, unreasoning and bewildered. What disjointed wisdom I might have tried to impart around a numb tongue, what unspoken questions I thought to voice. It still unsettles me that I died by choice that night. I--
No. Enough. I've said enough.
Not that it's a graceful method of death-- well, to be fair, few are. Still. The first word is too harsh, too sharp, too clean; doesn't catch the meaning of the awful mess, the shock of watching it pool beneath you. Even a little cut can bleed so profusely; hot, sticky, blood takes up more space than it ought to. I hate it. The sight, the smell, the sour copper tang in the air, itching as it dries on the skin.
The second term may be too gentle. Life doesn't ebb out of the body, nor consciousness fade out to peace, as we might wish to tell ourselves. Heart drumming, it forces life swiftly from the body, and desperation to survive, to cling to consciousness, only speeds the process.
Still, I can't help but feel it was a better way to go than hypothermia. Your mind and body lie to you, then, and a false heat creeps through you, making you laugh through chattering teeth. I don't remember much of it, which is probably a kindness; too taken by numbness I doubt I died with any dignity. I never asked whether we spoke, and I think it's for the best. I don't want to know what I might have said, unreasoning and bewildered. What disjointed wisdom I might have tried to impart around a numb tongue, what unspoken questions I thought to voice. It still unsettles me that I died by choice that night. I--
No. Enough. I've said enough.