I was still there, on the ground, lying in the dust of a world that no longer wanted me, or that I no longer wanted to cross. My breath came in spasms, choppy, torn out with each spasm of pain as if breathing, now, required an effort I no longer deserved. My chest barely rose, as if emptied of oxygen, as if even the air had deserted my lungs. My body, emptied of everything — of strength, of tension, of identity — was nothing more than a heap of exhaustion, a sack of torn nerves struggling to belong to itself.
My throat was raw, scraped by the screams I hadn't been able to release or that I had screamed too much. And my heart… my heart still beat, yes, but in an absurd, erratic way, like a drum struck without rhythm, without music, without purpose — a dull, repetitive, almost insulting sound that reminded me I was still alive, even if nothing truly lived in me anymore.
