27 days

Many years ago, I remembered the time when you cut your finger at home and told me you were bleeding and it wouldn’t stop.

I immediately rushed down from my house, worried-stricken, and told you specifically what to do. In my mind, I was only praying for your well being.

It was also then, I realized you virtually have zero knowledge in basic medical aid when you shared with me what you did: you tilted your fingers downward and examine your blood dripped like an unsealed tap. Later, you said you suffered some fainting spells and I immediately admonished you, saying that people who attempt suicide do that sort of thing - you should stop the blood from flowing.

And you can’t do that again because if something happens to you, then what am I going to do?

Now, I have multiple slashes all over me; I am not oozing blood - I am gushing.

Every major vein and artery is leaking wistful blood.

And I know that I will be left there, stranded in the open field with circling vultures, waiting for death to claim me before they swoop down for a great feast on my newly deceased corpse.

My poignant eyes are struggling to keep open.

Perhaps I should just close them.