The weeks had passed in a pall of sorrow and grey. Sometimes it was quite beautiful, the sombre nature of loss; other times bathtub was a fitting conclusion, a place to submerge my head beneath the water and feel my lungs palpitate with absolute frenzy. I had visitors, they ascended the stairs with a sense of self-righteousness and regurgitated notions of the warmth of the afterlife. They took my biscuits and offered advice, and in my head I liked to imagine the angels came and danced you into your grave, engrossed by their own indecency and the resonance of their own laughter. But most of all I liked to lay in bed and think about you rotting in the ground, a delicious insincerity against the warmth of the afterlife, personified in decomposing flesh and the scent of carrion.
I sat in my chair and let the blood from my wrists fall over the edges of the arms, and land on the carpet, the crimson circle growing larger around my feet with every minute. I counted the drips which fell as my life faded away and reached the beyond the realms of Graham’s number; my infinity was purely mathematical, and I had not encountered the face of God. I saw my life stretch out in an infinite number of directions, reaching different infinities all at the same time with each blood drop which seeped into the carpet. In the last moments of consciousness, I managed to laugh at the irony of it all.