It is a strange thing, Drystan thought, as he watched his lifeless self for the first and very last time.
Very strange indeed, to recognise as his own, this body of a twenty-three year old child that will never grow a day older.

Cozied in warm pink water, he was sleeping a dreamless sleep. Gone was the demon creeping at night in his head. Gone were the distress, the loath and the misery. Gone, too, were the hopes, the wild fantasies, the bittersweet memories, the laughs, and the love. He did not feel anymore of the scathing joys and the scorching pains that tormented his soul into surrender, for now, he did not feel anything at all.

All that was left was peace and stillness.

Marble white, his hand hung motionless above the bathroom tiles. Thick scarlet lines ran down his wrist, in the cradle of his palm and along his fingers. They dripped quietly into the water that flooded from the tub with a soft, soothing hum.

Nothing could upset the timelessness and the serenity of dying.

Not even the distant, desperate knocks on the door. Not even the faraway voice imploring him to let her in. This voice— he must once have loved her very dearly. Yet, now that he was drifting into oblivion, he could not remember who it belonged to. It did not matter.

Nothing mattered anymore. He could finally sleep.