To be honest, my life is already over.


    And I’m not being pessimistic or nihilistic or whatever it’s called. It’s genuinely over.


    Try to imagine the sensation of horribly failing an exam, or rear-ending a car when you already have a violation on your license. Now, multiply that feeling of despair and regret by ten—maybe even one hundred—and you’ll understand what I’m currently experiencing.


    And no, I’m not overreacting.


    “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”


    A voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and nasally, dripping with smugness. It’s the type of voice that would normally make my skin crawl, if I wasn’t already bracing for what’s to come.


    The old me would’ve shot back with a snarky comment, maybe a sarcastic, “Yeah, I’m pretty beautiful.”


    But today, I’m feeling pretty empty.


    “Allllright, time to begin.”


    The sticky voice announces from above me now, accompanied by the sensation of cold latex gloves prodding my body.


    Right.


    Because today, I’m going to be emptied out.


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    Immediately, something enters my eye. Presumably, the tip of a needle. There''s a slight pop as it pierces the cornea, slipping through the membrane. I don’t even flinch. I just imagine the cold metal sinking deeper, reaching into the back of my skull.


    Maybe I should have splurged on the anesthesia package.


    But then again, I’m getting gutted either way. So is there even a point? Is this the so-called illusion of free choice?


    A blade traces my chest, the steel biting through skin and flesh with a remarkable efficiency.


    snip snip snip


    The sound is methodical, almost rhythmic, like a soldier’s boots marching in beat with the war drums. Then, a deeper cut. My stomach is opened up, a gaping wound exposing my squish organs to the sterile air.


    Gloved fingers burrow inside, yanking and tearing. My intestines uncoil, slick and trembling in the artificial light. My ribcage creaks, then cracks, each segment neatly separated, stripped away like unwanted scaffolding. I’m reminded of the vultures I saw long ago in a documentary. Before they went extinct.


    And somewhere in the middle of it all, one thought surfaces.


    What the hell am I doing right now?


    The kind of thought you get when your friends convince you to do something stupid—something reckless—and mid-way through, as the consequences start to sink in, you realize just how badly you’ve messed up.


    Well, the answer to my question… is a letter.


    I should have thrown the letter away the moment I saw it.


    It had arrived in an unmarked envelope, slipped beneath my door as if it had simply materialized there. And for the record, there is no space between my door and the floor.


    I can still remember the content of the letter, it’s almost like they’ve been ingrained into my head.


    As the gloved fingers wrap around my heart, I silently mouth the words, chanting.


    You’ve been invited to explore an abyss of rusted metal and bloodshed!


    They remove my brain and put it inside the machine.