This Dark Ritual Story Has One Brutal Ending

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on YouTube and make sure you're subscribed with notifications on so you don't miss it. Dr. No Sleep Night shrouded trees whip past on either side of the box truck. As we speed down the narrow road, it's asphalt, unlike the road we were on minutes ago, but it's not used enough to warn any pavement markings on its gray surface. I'm tempted to pull my list out

of my pocket, just to triple check I haven't missed anything, but I know that Bruce would ask about it. I would rather not lie to him more than I already have tonight. Instead, I stare at the window at the passing trees, going over my mental list as nervous

excitement thrones through me. This is the riskiest part, but it also comes with a big

“reward if I get it right. My window is cracked, letting some of the warm night air in.”

A flying ant slips through the gap and lands on the inside of the door. Soon, another one follows. Then a moth comes through the window, bouncing off my chin. You knew this would happen, I tell myself. No avoiding it. So long as we don't mess around, it'll be fine. Still, my heart crawls up into my throat. I close the window and look at Bruce. I'm about to ask him about his oldest daughters-up coming graduation, just to get my mind off

everything that could go wrong. Before I get a word out, a swarm of disparate insects comes out of nowhere. Their body's hitting the windshield. Some splatter, while others bounce

off. Their tough, exoskeleton sounding like pebbles, striking the glass.

"Man, what the hell!" Bruce says, putting the windshield wipers on. They barely help, smearing the exploded insects across the glass. But it seems we're past the cloud. I lean

“over to look for the spray function on the rental trucks controls.”

"Jesus!" Bruce shouts, swirving. "I bounce against the doors, I whip my head forward to look out the windshield, seeing nothing on the road through the smeared insect remains." "A thud comes from the cargo area. The sound jams my heart fully into my throat, making it suddenly hard to breathe." "I's wide. I look over my shoulder, even though I can't see into the enclosed back at the truck." "Pull over! It's okay!"

Bruce says, straightening the vehicle. "I didn't hit it! Pull over, Bruce! Okay, okay!" "My friend says, easing on the brakes. His bushy beard and unkempt brown hair obscure much of his plump face. What I can see the hurt in his eyes." "Our regrets napping at him. But part of me knows he isn't the best guy for this job. Sure, I can trust him to keep his mouth shut. But trust isn't everything in a situation like this.

As soon as he stops the truck, I unbuckle and jump out, heading to the back. Bruce does the same. Getting there after I've already opened the roll-up door. "I peer into the back of the truck. Dread, slithering through me as I stare at the knocked over crate." "What the hell?" " Bruce says, "I security with the ratchet strap!"

"I nod. I know you did. I checked it myself. Looks like it broke. I'm sorry, man." " Bruce says, scratching his shoulder absolutely." "I hope I didn't break. Whatever is in there." "Me too." "I glanced around at the dark woods." "What did you see?" "Huh? What made you swarve?" "Oh, it was a deer. It bolted out into the road." Taking a deep breath, I tell myself it's a coincidence. It has to be.

The insects are one thing. But a deer? That's something else entirely. I climb into the truck. Bruce starts up after me, but I stop him. "No, I got this. Stay there." The specially-made crate is the truck's only cargo. It's made from thick, black plastic, and is the size of a coffin. I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight.

As I'm inspecting the crate for damage, my eye catches on the broken ratchet strap. It's afraid at the break, but I know it was intact when we left the cave. I pick up the end and examine it closely, seeing several ants scurrying down the bright yellow strap. Upon closer inspection, I spot the big jaws jutting from the ants heads. I expected some resistance, but this is crazy. I drop the strap and hurry to inspect the

rest of the crate for damage. As I make my way to the other side, Bruce grunts. Drone by the noise I glanced at him. Bruce is bent over, peering under the truck, a puzzled expression on his face. "What is it?" I ask, heart-thudding. "I don't know," he says, straightening.

hood. He shouts in pain. I run to the back of the truck, but I don't jump out. I fall to all

“fours at the back edge of the cargo area, peering down at what I can see of Bruce. He's gripping the”

metal bumper, arms shaking as he fights against some unseen force trying to pull him under the truck. Dropping my phone and lying on my chest, I reached down, grabbing his wrists. As I start to pull on him several horrific sounds erupt from under the truck at once, snarling, tearing, splattering. Bruce jerks his mouth gaping in mute agony. Blood splashes up from everywhere. Splattering his baby blue T-shirt in his quivering face. His hands go limp. "No!"

I grunt, still gripping his wrists. He's yanked under with incredible strength. I'm pulled

from the cargo area, instinctively letting go of my friend to cushion my impact with the road. I land with my head toward the truck, and as I glance under, I see Bruce getting dragged out from under the vehicle up near the driver's door. His arms are limp, and the back of his head bounces and drags along the concrete, ripping his scalp open. A smeared pile of intestines rests under the rear axle. Something big moves in the woods nearby, crunching and cracking as it rushes

toward the road. I scramble up, grabbing the hanging strap and yanking it to close the door. As I sprint, up to the driver's door. I see my friend's body getting dragged into the woods,

but I can't make out what's doing the dragging. In the darkness of the woods,

it appears to be a collection of shadows, somehow bulbous and sharp at the same time. My imagination brings forth a cavalcade of hideous monsters as I throw myself into the truck. Sliming my foot on the gas, I glance into my side mirror, seeing the smear of blood along the roadway. I look into the other mirror just as something bursts from the woods on that side of the road. In the fading back splash from the headlights, I can only make out a collection of sharp teeth

and three pairs of saloise as the ungainly thin gallops after the truck. Soon, I lose sight of it completely. The disturbingly vivid memories of Bruce's death spiral through my mind. Another life taken by what's inside the crate. The steering wheel material squeaks under my sweaty hands as I strangle it. Oh, I tell his wife. Maybe nothing. I asked him not to tell her that he was meeting up with me, whether he did or not remains to be determined. I'll have to

wait and see. But first, I have to get back to my house before anything else happens. I have to

secure the thing in the crate. After that, everything will be okay. Stopping at the top of the basement stairs. I turn around for one last look. A layer of thick white fog undulates at the foot of the stairwell, obscuring the basement floor. I wipe sweat out of my eyes and blink, staring at the fog, going over everything in my mind again. All the fail-saves are in place, all the redundancies, the basement is completely sealed, or it will be soon. The containment is complete. I've done

“everything right. Then again, that's what I thought before Bruce was killed. I've gone over”

it time and again since it happened, and I still can't pinpoint what I missed. Maybe I simply underestimated the thing. I'm tempted to go over it all again, but I need to sleep. The sun will be up soon, and I have things I need to do when it is at a certain place in the sky. Things I can't put off. A glance at my watch tells me I have time for a three hour nap. Better than nothing. I stepped through the basement door and into the white pantry in my new house. To close the door

behind me, listening to make sure it seals properly. It doesn't look like a door at all. It looks like the back wall of the pantry, complete with spice racks attached to its face. The locking mechanism is concealed in one of these racks. I engage it and then head out into the kitchen. The plastic coffin-sized crate sits on the floor in front of the $10,000 of and range I haven't yet had the time to use. That will come soon. I'll be able to relax and enjoy the luxuries I've

surrounded myself with. A pang of guilt jolt's me as Bruce comes to mind. I'll need to give

“his wife and daughter's money. Lots of it. That's the only thing I can do for them. I'll deal with”

that later. Same with the crate. After I've had some sleep, and after I've done what I need to do tomorrow at 10 o'clock 3 a.m. After that, everything will be okay. I trudged through my dream house too tired to appreciate it. I've only been living here for a month, but right now it's newness and amenities are the last things on my mind. My shoes sink into high pile carpet as I head upstairs. After removing my shoes, I flopped down on my Alaskan King bed, barely noticing

the luxuriously soft blanket on top, or the cloud-like pillow under my head. As I tumble toward

from my tumble away from sweet sleep. I tried to force my thoughts away from his horrific death.

“It doesn't work. Not right away. It takes me a long time to get to sleep.”

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Someone is driving up to my house. I click on the feed to bring the camera up, immediately recognizing the vehicle. My stomach shrinks to a hardball. It's Bruce's wife, Riley. I check the clock. It's 947. I don't have time for this. Thinking I can just ignore her and she'll go away, I return to my preparations in the sunroom directly over the basement. I already have everything set up, but I still need to reference

my notes and triple check to ensure I have it all correct. The doorbell rings. I keep working. Inspecting the meticulous drawings, comparing them to the small scale copies I made from the pages it took me two decades to procure. I've done smaller rituals at the cave, but this is the big one. If I mess it up, the best case scenario is all I'll have to wait another ten years to attempt it again. Worst case, I'll cease to be anything recognizable as human. The doorbell rings again. It's

followed by banging. Riley shouts. Voice muffled, but loud enough to hear. That gets my attention. I didn't know Bruce had cheated on his wife. I latch onto that.

“Allowing it to "south" some of the guilt I feel. Carm is a bitch, I think. And then I immediately”

admonish myself. Then one deserves to die like Bruce did. Riley keeps banging and screaming. I wonder why she thinks he's here. I know how easily cars can be tracked these days, so I met him at a bar in town last night where I picked him up in the box truck. It suddenly hits me. The box truck. I haven't returned it yet. Bruce's phone was in the cradle. He'd put it in there and pulled up a map before I told him I knew the way. But he still left the phone there.

I'd been too preoccupied to notice it yesterday. His wife must be tracking his phone. I checked the time again. It's 9.54. Nine minutes until I'll need to focus. And I won't be able to do that if she's banging on the door and shouting. Maybe I can get rid of her. I hustled to the front of the house and opened the door with the sympathetic smile in place. Riley jerks back, surprise, transforming her face. I haven't seen her in several years, which have not been kind

“to her. She's developed jowls. Her dark hair is going gray. She's heavier than I remember.”

Hey Riley. I say good to see you. Sorry, but Bruce isn't here. Nash, I heard you move back. This is your house? Yeah. Listen, I haven't meeting here in just a few minutes. I would love to catch up, but now's a bad time. If Bruce isn't here, his phone is here. Yeah. He helped me move a couple of things last night. Left his phone in the truck.

Really? He just left it? I've never known Bruce to leave his phone anywhere.

I shrug and glanced at my watch. 9.56. 7 minutes. So he's not sleeping one off in there with some whore. Riley says, "Then I'm coming back into her voice." I swear he's not here. I don't know what he did when he left, but I last saw him at about 11 last night. You can grab his phone under the truck if you want. It's unlocked. I'd just right the vehicle parked in front of the three cargo rods. I can't see her sedan, so I assume she parked on the other side of the white cargo truck. She looks at the box truck. I can't

"Let's cut the bullshit okay, Nash. I know Bruce is here. The only way you'll convince me he's not

“is if you show me around, won't take but a few minutes." Well, maybe a little more considering”

the size of the place. I glanced at my watch. Five minutes. My inner voice screams. This is not fucking happening. With my outer voice, I say, "Come on in. I lead her into the kitchen, glancing at the plastic, coffin-sized crate. I still haven't moved. The lid is slightly a skew, revealing the inside. Want some coffee? What the hell is that?" She asks, pointing at the crate. Just a moving crate. I say, serapticiously pulling a knife from the block on the counter.

Why does it have all those weird drawings on the inside? She crouches to get a better look. I move toward her. The tight ball of my stomach, growing heavier with each step. I'm really sorry. I didn't want things to go like this. Riley is still crouched, but she turns her head just as I plunge the knife toward her.

Her reflexes are impressive. She twists and falls away, but it's not quite enough. The blade slices

through her blouse and drags along her ribs, opening her flesh as I follow through. She hits the counter next to the oven and falls to a sitting position. I go in for another

“attempt. Her flailing hands make things harder. The blade slices through her left palm on the”

way to her throat. She gets her right hand around my wrist, but I have the leverage. I jerk the knife forward. The tip enters her neck just over her left clavicle, but she manages to keep it from going any deeper. Now with both hands on my wrist, she tries to push the knife away even as she kicks at my left knee. My joint hyper extends, a jolt of breathtaking pain shooting through it. She uses my flinch to push the knife back.

Blood seeps out of the wound in her throat, but it's not much. The pain in my injured knee only makes me angry. I give up trying to pry her fingers off my wrist with my free hand. Instead, I grab a handful of her hair, angle the blade up and yank her face toward the knife. It sinks into her skin below her left eye, causing the eye to bulge out momentarily. Then I'm yanking her head off the blade and pulling it back again to do more damage.

Her eyes go red with blood. The second hit slices through her top lip.

The tip jams between two teeth, but the momentum causes those teeth to fold backwards before

“the blade scrapes off. She grouse, fighting frantically now, mouth open and filling with blood.”

A jerk her head back once more and then forward, sending the knife into her mouth, the blade sinking into the back of her throat. She stops growling as blood pours down her throat. As I pull the weapon out, she lets go of my wrist and tries to scramble away on all fours. I let her go for a moment before stepping over her, wencing at the pain in my knee as I grab hold of her hair again.

A jerk her head up and drag the blade across her throat. Blood sprays out. She falls to her stomach and clutches at her neck. Won't be long now. I check the time. 10-01, only two minutes left. Dropping the knife, I limp back to the sunroom and make the last few preparations for the ritual. As the final seconds count down, I'm certain I'm going to make it.

I have all the supplies gathered, all the drawings done. I adorn the cow made for the sewn-together pelts of 12 animals, all of which I've hunted and killed myself. It's time. The doorbell rings. Mom? A girl's voice calls. And if he...

I whip my head that way, crushing dismay eating at me. All that preparation down the drain. Maybe I can do it anyway. I close my eyes and start speaking the words I've memorized. The doorbell rings again. I lose my place. It's already too late. Throwing the cow off.

I lurched to my feet and head toward the front door. I looked at the people to see Bruce and Riley's youngest daughter standing on the porch. Sarah. Behind the 11-year-old, their other daughter, Patricia, lingers in the yard. She's newly and adult about to graduate high school. The fact that I've orphaned them hits me like a knife to the throat.

I can't breathe. A choking noise escapes my mouth seemingly on its own, stumbling away from the door. A riot of thoughts assails me. Bruce's death was one thing, but I've just murdered Riley. Also, I could complete the ritual. Now, that's out the window.

But all is not lost. I can continue to leach its power. And in 10 years, I can finish things. But not if I'm in prison. Sarah rings the doorbell again, calling out for her mother with more urgency. Witnesses. They're witnesses.

Comprehension comes like a lifesaving drug injected into my bloodstream. With it, my mind shifts away from doubt and to utter certainty. I can breathe again. I know what I have to do. There's no other choice. I limp past the kitchen through the laundry room

Instead, I've been using a traditional bow and wooden arrows to hunt animals.

It took me a long time to learn, but it was all part of the rituals. I grabbed the bow and a leather quiver of arrows and head outside to the back door, circling around to the front. I knock an arrow and take aim at the older of the two girls from behind the tree. I don't let her name come to mind. She doesn't have a name.

Neither of them do. Not anymore. Not to me. This is all Riley's fault anyway.

“Who brings their kids to confront their cheating husband?”

As I prepare to release the arrow, I think.

After I kill these two girls, everything will be okay!

I don't actually see the things slip into the house. I only sense movement, barely perceptible, from where I stand at the bottom of the porch steps. Spinning around with my authentic 18th century tomahawk in my hands. I catch the barest glimpse of a shadow, disappearing through the partially open front door.

Or at least, I think I catch it. It's so quick in a femoral. I may have imagined it. Didn't I shut the door? Maybe not. Hard to remember. I'm in the middle of an ambient induced stupor. I lids heavy. Thoughts, lurching sloppily around in the dark recesses of my mind,

“as if searching for a light switch. I glanced down at the spot on the porch where the finish has been”

scrubbed away. My back still aches from scrubbing the girl's blood off the wood. Even though it's been nearly three days since then. Now all I can do is hope the power I've harnessed from the deity will be enough to keep me out of prison. If I had managed to perform the ceremony the other morning, I wouldn't have any such worries. The full power would be mine,

and I wouldn't have to take such drastic measures to keep the thing trapped in my basement. With a few words, I could convince anyone who came looking for the missing family that I had nothing to do with it. But that's not the case now. No matter how much I wish it was. I realize I'm zoning out, staring at the discolored spot on the porch. I shake my head and look around, remembering why I came out here.

Recalling the noise that pulled me from my drug-induced slumber. The noise that stopped right as I opened the front door and stepped outside. Every time I've tried to sleep since that morning, I've been thwarted by memories of what I've done, the blood, the screaming, the hacking.

Finally, mere hours ago, I broke down and took a couple of ambient. It was a mistake.

Possibilities crawls sluggishly through my mind. I could leave. Just get a my car and go. But it would only be a matter of time before the deity gets free. I've worked too damn hard to just let it all go. So the only other option is to face whatever has slipped into my house. It's clear there's a leak. I must have missed something. The deity is still able to reach out from its prison. I expected as much during transport, but I thought once I had it in the basement,

it would be powerless. Adjusting my grip on the smooth wood of the Tomahawk's handle, I prepared to go back inside. I'll defeat whatever is in there, find out where the leak is, and plug it. Then I'll go back to bed and sleep for a day. Posing at the door, a sense of movement from behind me causes the fuzz of my neck to crackle with fear static. Whipping my head around, I peer at my front yard. I got rid of Riley Sedan

and returned to the box truck. My garage doors are closed. Tall pine trees, dot the property, like the legs of a hundred standing giants, swaying with the night's breeze. The porch lights domain only extend so far. Beyond a certain point, all is darkness. There could be a thousand creatures out there, and I wouldn't know. Surely the leak isn't that big. Still, I stare into the implacable darkness. Sure at least one pair of eyes has fixed on me. I glanced down at the

“Tomahawk. Should have brought a gun. I think for the second time since knocking an arrow”

to kill a teenage girl. I didn't think I would ever need one. I thought I would be wielding immense power by now. Facing forward, I pulled the door open wide, step through, peer around my entryway. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, but I still feel like there's something staring at me from the woods outside. As I turn around a shut-in-locked door, a floorboard creeks behind me. I freeze. Spine going straight. Part, struggling to beat hard

despite the fear. The ambience slowing me down. A dank me asthma invades my nostrils. It would make me wretched if it wasn't so scared. Another floorboard creeks. This one nearer. My paralysis shatters. I spin around, jerking back against the closed door. What I see. A bear's decomposing face, jutting from the middle of a jumble of other animal parts, an elk's head at an angle on one side, antlers whipping around as the head vibrates with

dark energy. I spot pieces of a dozen different animals, snakes, coyotes, wolves, mountain lions,

and it seems they've all been smashed together impermanently. Their heads shift, paws, trade places, legs take turns holding the massive, unholy d-stop, rotting for a roils, obscuring just how these disparate parts are joined. Sharp teeth are bare, several pairs of saloized glare with malevolence. Terror releases adrenaline,

“which helps counteract the drugs, but not by much. Instead of acting, I think.”

This requires too much power, it shouldn't be possible. The creature swings a bear by at me. It's claws ripped through my black t-shirt and gouge the skin of my left-back. I cry out in pain and stumbled to the side, striking blindly out with the dama hawk. The blade is plenty sharp. It slices through decomposing flesh and shatters the bone, but this doesn't slow the creature down. The oaks had juts forward and jerks its antlers toward me. This time I duck and rush away,

dodging through my living room as the creature chases after me. Through the kitchen, into the pantry. I work the hidden lever and swing the door open. I rush inside and shut the door. Motion sensor lights come on, illuminating the stairwell. There's no lock on the door. I didn't think I would need one, but maybe it will hold the creature long enough for me to plug the leak. Winsing at the pain from the gash wounds, I hustled down the stairs and into the windowless basement.

“The fob machines are still running, obscuring the floor. Turning the corner off the stairs,”

I bring my prisoner into view. I've come to think of it as female, because of its feminine face, but it's beyond gender. The rest of its body is a shifting mishmash of animal and tree parts. Right now, a deer's torso, a bear's arms, the tail of a fox, and legs made of roots. Unlike the creature upstairs, the deity's parts are living, but their natural brilliance has faded since I started absorbing her power. Looking at it for too long hurts the mind,

because its body shifts and changes. But the high-cheat bones, bright yellow eyes,

and smooth delicate features of the humanoid face always stay the same. The deity sits in the

middle of the concrete floor, trapped on all sides by various totems, symbols, scrolled on the floor with coal and painstaking detail, and, most importantly, the carefully placed bones of the animals, and two humans I killed. All of these are currently obscured by the fog,

“preventing her from seeing what they are. If she could see them, she might be able to use”

some of her critters to move them and break out of her prison, like she used the ants to chew through the ratchet strap. I have no choice but to shut off the fog machines, which I do as the creature slams into the door at the top of the stairs. I have to see everything to figure out where I've gone wrong, but that means she'll see everything too. It's a chance I have to take. Once I plug the leak, I'll figure something out. I just need to plug the leak, and everything will be okay.

The deity watches me carefully. A smirk on her plump lips. I tear my gaze from her and study the markings on the floor as the fog dissipates. The crash from the top of the stairs tells me I don't have much time. The creature is through the door. As the beast lumbars down the stairs, I rush over to the safe where I keep the pages of the ancient texts. The manual I used to trap the deity. I had to kill a couple of competitors and blackmail a couple more to get the pages.

Not to mention the money I spent, but it was all worth it. I realized I don't have time to read through the delicate pages before I'm attacked by the beast. I'm still not thinking straight.

I should have never taken the damn ambient. Then a distant memory comes to the floor.

Something I read in the pages and dismissed outright because I knew I wouldn't need to take such desperate measures. Get here I am, desperate. The creature is halfway down the steps. I stare at the abomination, terror trying to seize control of my thoughts. Focus, you only have one shot at this. I force myself to look at the floor, finding the correct symbol. I get as near as I can without messing any of the other items up. The creature is closing in. The deity turns,

watching me, eyes narrowing as I drop to my knees and place my left forearm against the floor. As I raise the Tomahawk and take aim at my left wrist, I hesitate, imagining the excruciating pain I'll have to endure. Mind-reeling sluggishly, I grasp for some other way. Some way that doesn't involve chopping my own fucking hand off. No matter how much power I get from

her, I will never be able to regrow the appendage. Bruce comes to mind. Bruce and his family,

all the pain they endured. They can't have died for nothing. Besides, if I wait any longer, the creature will inflict unimaginable pain on me. And then it will be the deity's turn. Stealing myself, I glance once more at the deity. Her anxious expression makes me grin. Where's your smart now, bitch? I slam the blade into my wrist, screaming at the pain as it sinks halfway into the joint. Nausea threatens to make me vomit. The creature is down the stairs, closing in.

I gotta make this count. Pulling the Tomahawk out, I glimpsed the inner workings of my wrist

What I clench my jaw and focus, telling myself it's not my pain, not my hand. It's someone else's.

“The second strike, severes the hand. Trying to keep my mind off the excruciating pain and”

the blood pouring for my stump, I toss the weapon down. Grabbing the left hand, I lean forward, placing it over the correct symbol on the floor. The creature stops right next to me, as if frozen in place. I lean back, gripping my wrist below the wound to slow the blood flow.

Looking at the frozen creature looming over me, I can't help but laugh insanely.

Jesus, God who's close. Smiling despite the pain, I look up at the deity. She's smirking again, but I hardly notice. I beat you. I say drunkenly as blood from the stump wets my right hand, the pain, God of the pain, but it's worth it. You're not going anywhere, you're mine!

“Sensing movement from the creature, I look that way. No, it hasn't moved. Has it?”

When I look back at the deity, she's taken a step out of the circle that should be her prison.

It takes a long moment for my sluggish synapses to fire. Denial dampens them even more than the ambient. No! My inner voice screams with the realization. I did everything right! When the creature moves, there's no denying it. I jerk away, but not fast enough. The claws, rip my left eyeball out of its socket and knock me to the floor. My screams bounce around the room

“as the bare head bites down on my right arm, snapping the radius and on the bones. The top half”

of a copperhead snakes shoots out, sinking its fangs into my cheek. The elk had shifts and slams it's antlers into my groaning. Still screaming and writhing, I watched the deity step completely out of the circle. She moves toward me. The roots currently making up her legs sprout greens, where there had only been gray bark. As the bare rips my right arm off at the break, I realized where I went wrong. Not originally. I have no idea what I messed up to let her

power leak out, but I realized the mistake I made just now. A stupid mistake. I should have remembered. I should have known. Right hand. I gasped. It was supposed to be the right hand. The creature whips my now severed right arm away. It smacks the side of the stairwell and falls to the floor. Even as the creature continues at the tack, I stare at the gory stumps. Right hand, right hand, right hand. I have no hands. How could I forget? The deity closes in. Grinding. I scoff and sob.

The pain rips through me, torching my nerves, making pleasure a thing I can't even fathom. Memories of what I've done at fuel to the fire. Bruce, Riley, Sarah, Patricia. I killed them all. For nothing. Sickening regret torches me in tandem with the agony of my injuries. But one thought comes to the floor and I tried to take comfort in it. Once I'm dead, everything will be okay. But I have the feeling death won't come for a very long time.

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