The look of my loved ones was painful for me. I saw the tears in their eyes, the dying hope, comparisons to my former self. Every movement of my eyes was interpreted in the sense that I would get back on my feet, that I would be 'the old me' again. I wanted to scream. Were they telling this to themselves to give me hope or were they lying to themselves so they wouldn't have to deal with reality? Even in the face of my death, couldn't they come to terms with the possibility that I could cease to exist? I wanted to shake them, wanted my justice, wanted someone to understand me. But all I got was pity. Pity and sorrow. They wanted me to play along in their perfidious game that ignored what was going on. In which only the others ever die. Because dealing with dying would ultimately mean making your own possibility of death part of your thoughts. I felt as if the interpretation of my fate was no longer in my hands, as if it was a matter for others to decide how to deal with my death. As if they were shouting “You put us here in such circumstances and shake our all-obscuring world, so you have forfeited the right to decide how your death should be dealt with.” But what did death actually mean? Would I really die? After everything that had happened in my life, should it really be over now? It's also hard for me to picture my non-existence. Was I being too dramatic? Was there any hope of breaking out of this prison? May I hope? A lot of questions piled up inside of me as soon as I stood on the threshold of non-existence. As if, just before I understood, was being pushed back into life and hope by my human weaknesses. I felt weak. My dramatic anger gave way to a desire to be cared for and loved. I wanted to be a child again, to have all my worries taken away, to be talked to and to feel warm and safe, even though it sensed that disaster was waiting behind the safe walls. I let my loved ones pour their pity over me with tacitly acquiescence, awaited it like a warm shower of rain and bathed in my self-pity.