So, this is how a stab wound feels.

I laughed at Apate's audacity without thinking, digging my fingers into his arm, but I quickly regretted it when he sank the cutter even farther into my stomach.

The pain was immediate and excruciating, far more intense than anything I had imagined, and each breath felt like fire in my lungs. I staggered backward, clutching at the wound, but Apate held firm, his grip tightening on my shoulder.

"Careful. You don't want me to pull this thing out already." His voice was calm, almost clinical, as if he were merely discussing the weather. His eyes, however, burned with a strange intensity that made my blood run cold. This wasn't admiration or respect—it was something far more sinister.

"Why?" I managed to choke out, the word barely more than a gasp. "Why are you doing this?"

Reaching out, he gently moved my hands along the handle before releasing the cutter and backing away. Where is everyone? The museum has an oddly empty sound as if the visitors have disappeared.

"I'll tell you," he said as he turned his back against me. "Since you're going to die, there's no point in lying to you now. By then, pay attention to what I have to say before you take your final breath." Apate started drifting away, and I had to follow him.

Each step was a struggle, the pain from my wound threatening to overwhelm me. The echo of our footsteps in the empty museum was eerie, amplifying the sense of isolation and dread, and I kept my eyes fixed on his back.

"Everything here is a lie. I was never your fan, I was never an artist, and Apate was never my real name. Let's say that everything that has happened up to this point is all fake."

We passed by countless paintings as I continued to follow Apate, our footsteps echoing against the marble floor of the museum. I could feel the metallic taste building up over my mouth as my blood had started to slip out.

"You must be so happy when a stranger like me went out of their way to invite a pathetic person like you. You ought to know by now to never trust anyone, but you never learn your lesson, do you?"

My mind raced, attempting to make out what he was trying to say, but I was unable to do so. Even though I felt like my entire body was on fire inside of me, I kept following him because I wanted to understand. With every step I took, more and more blood leaked out, leaving a red trail behind.

After we walked for a while, I started to feel like the people in the paintings were looking at me, waiting for me to fall over. Their eyes are wide open, watching everything I do.

"Do you realize that everything you do is useless? No matter how much you write in the hopes that someone will come to help you, no one will see you, not even yourself. That's why you got into this situation in the first place."

I stammered and gasped out, "Don't give me that bullshit. You're the one who did this to me." I could feel the hatred building inside of me. "What does that have anything to do with you? Let's skip the small talk because you lied to me, that's all."

"..."

Slowly, Apate stopped in his tracks and turned to face me. His expression had shifted from smug amusement to something more serious.

The painting that we stopped next to is nothing other than Van Gogh's Starry Night. Its swirling skies and vibrant colors seemed to pulse with a life of their own, as if the stars were watching us, waiting.

"You're right," he said softly. "Technically, I did lie to you, but everything that has happened so far is caused by your predicament. Fate says that you will die, but I'm here to make the process faster."

I could only glare at him, the weight of his words pressing down on me as heavily as the pain in my abdomen. "What are you talking about?" I gasped, my breath hitching with every word. "Fate? Predicament? You're just a sadistic bastard who enjoys watching people suffer."

He snorted and shook his head slowly, almost pityingly. "Oh, the hypocrisy. As far as I know, you want people who did you wrong to suffer—and now you're getting a taste of your own medicine."

My mind reeled, struggling to process his words through the haze of pain. "What are you talking about? I've never wanted this. I've never—"

"Whoops! Time out now." Apate glanced at his watch and began to walk toward me. "Looks like we need to finish this," he commented cheerfully.

The approach was slow and deliberate, each step echoing ominously in the deserted museum. I tried to back away, but my legs were trembling, barely supporting my weight, and the pain in my abdomen flared with every movement.

"Stay away," I managed to croak, my voice weak and desperate. "You don't have to do this."

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Apate's smile widened, a chilling contrast to the lifeless calm in his eyes. "Oh, but I do, Avel. You wished for the inevitable, so I will lay it out for you on a silver platter. The moment you entered this museum, your life was over, so good night, and may God bless you."

He was close now, his hand reaching out to grasp the handle of the cutter still embedded in my flesh. The touch sent a fresh wave of agony through my body, and I cried out, unable to hold back the pain any longer.

"Look around you, Avel," Apate said, his voice almost soothing despite the horror of his actions. "These paintings, this museum—they're more than just art. They're windows into our souls. And right now, they're reflecting your pain, your fear, your despair."

My vision became blurry due to tears and pain as I looked around. The faces in the paintings appeared to writhe and deform, displaying horrific and agonizing expressions. With an intensity that seemed otherworldly, the Starry Night's swirling sky seemed to be closing in on me.

"Please," I begged, my voice barely a whisper. "Please, don't do this."

Apate's grip tightened on the handle of the cutter, and he leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear. "It's already done, Avel. Your fate was sealed the moment you stepped in here. But take solace in this—you won't die in vain. Your suffering will become part of something greater, something eternal."

He twisted the cutter in a quick, brutal motion that sent the world exploding into a blinding flash of pain. He then ripped the cutter violently out of me, and I felt like my guts were being perforated. My own blood was gushing out of me. I screamed—a raw, guttural sound that echoed through the empty museum.

Without warning, my knees buckled, and I fell to the cold, hard floor, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I took one deep breath, and my body convulsed. The taste of metal reached my throat, and it started to seep out of my lips.

I'm cold. I'm dying.

When my vision began to cloud, Apate laughed maniacally in the background. "It appears that you don't enjoy it! God, hahahaha!" His hand went over his head as he wheezed, the sound echoing off the museum's walls.

Black specks of dust began to form around him and swirl around like a macabre dance, merging and twisting in the dim light. My vision blurred further, and the pain in my abdomen was throbbing in time with my heartbeat. Each breath felt like shards of glass scraping against my lungs.

"What's happening?" I gasped, trying to make sense of the bizarre scene that was playing out in front of me. The black specks swirled faster, forming a vortex around Apate, who stood at its center, a twisted smile on his face.

"It was a pleasure meeting you. Goodnight."

With those final words, Apate's figure was engulfed by the swirling black dust, his laughter echoing eerily in the empty museum. The vortex of dark particles spun faster, creating a gust of wind that whipped around me, stinging my skin and tugging at my clothes.

The room seemed to tilt and warp, with the paintings on the walls stretching and twisting as if they were alive. And as the vortex reached its peak, a deafening silence fell over the room. Then, with a sudden, violent burst, the dust scattered, disappearing into the air as if it had never existed.

Apate was gone.

The only sound in the silence was the soft hum of the lights inside the museum. I looked up at the starry night, its vibrant colors now muted and dull. Its swirling skies offer no solace, no answers—only a cold, indifferent gaze.

"Help," I croaked, my voice barely a whisper, but no one was around to hear me.

I thought about death a lot—many times—but I never thought that my life would end this way. Is this how I pictured it? Alone in a bleeding, deserted museum, feeling every second of my life slip away?

"I don't want this," I whispered hoarsely to the empty room, my plea echoing off the walls. But there was no one to answer, no one to comfort me in my final moments.

Then there was a sound.

Rumble-rumble...

The ground began to shake violently, jolting me from the brink of unconsciousness. The tremors reverberated through the museum, rattling the frames of paintings and causing dust to cascade from the ceiling.

For a moment, I thought it was an earthquake, but the sensation was different, more controlled, as if something massive were moving beneath the museum.

Struggling to stay conscious, I managed to prop myself up against the base of a nearby sculpture, my fingers slick with blood. The ache in my stomach had subsided to a dull ache because of the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

The rumbling grew louder, accompanied by a deep, resonant hum that seemed to emanate from the very walls of the museum. I looked around frantically to see what was causing the disturbance, but I saw nothing.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the shaking stopped. The museum fell silent once more, the only sound being my ragged breathing and the faint echo of my heartbeat in my ears.

I remained propped against the sculpture, trying to steady my breathing and make sense of what just happened. I also glanced around cautiously, half-expecting another outburst of chaos or Apate's return, but there was no sign of either.

With a shaky exhale, I pushed myself away from the sculpture and staggered towards the nearest wall, using it for support. My hand left streaks of blood as I leaned heavily against it. Exhausted and disoriented, I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, my back against the cool surface.

I am going to die in a few minutes. Let's end this fast, please.

As if the world ignored my pleas, a faint glow caught my attention. It emanated from the direction of the Starry Night painting, its once-dull colors now suffused with a soft, ethereal light.

"What now?" I muttered, my voice barely more than a whisper.

As if guided by an unseen force, the painting tilted and began to rotate until it turned upside-down slowly. The movement was deliberate yet eerily smooth as if the painting itself had a will of its own.

The swirling skies and stars now take on a disorienting new perspective. I watched as the painting completed its inverted rotation. I blinked, unsure if my eyes were playing tricks on me.

Hallucination—I think my blood loss is causing me to have hallucinations, but this is a bit much. How is this possible?

As I stared at the now-upside-down Starry Night, I noticed that the enormous canvas was now damp to the touch, as if moisture had seeped through from the other side.

Drops of water began to form on the surface, then, in just a split second,

Wooooosh!

A shadow loomed over me as a big wave crashed out of the painting, cascading down onto the museum floor with a force that sent spray and foam in all directions. I scrambled back against the wall, my heart racing in terror and disbelief.

The water rose with alarming speed, lapping against the sculptures and paintings, threatening to submerge everything in its path. I tried to stand, desperate to get away from the rising flood, but I was so unable to move that all I could do was wince from the agony shooting through my abdomen.

With unrelenting force, the wave crashed into sculptures and swept paintings off their hooks. As the water started to rise and reach my knees and then my waist, I clung to the wall, my fingers fumbling for grip on the slippery surface.

Panic threatened to overwhelm me as I realized the futility of my situation. Trapped and wounded, I had no way to escape the flood that now threatened to drown me.

What did I do to deserve this? Is this what I get for giving up on myself? That all I'd done was hope for a better life? Is that it?

Well, fuck you, fate. I'm going to live whether God commands you or not. I will escape out of here and live my life, I promise you.

My whole body is now submerged in the cold, swirling water. Panic surged through me as I fought to stay above the surface, gasping for breath between waves that crashed over me.

The current tugged at me, pulling me deeper into the flooded gallery. I kicked and thrashed, trying to propel myself toward higher ground, but the pain in my abdomen slowed my movements, threatening to drag me under.

More of my blood spurted out of me and danced along with the water as I struggled to stay afloat. I fought against the relentless pull, desperate to reach the surface and escape the suffocating embrace of the flood.

I'm going to die here. Damn it.

I thrashed desperately, each movement weaker than the last. The pain in my abdomen was excruciating, and the cold water sapped what little strength I had left.

My vision began to blur, the edges darkening as the water pulled me under. I fought to keep my head above the surface, but the current was too strong. With every gasping breath, water filled my lungs, choking me.

I'm not ready to die.

A surge of adrenaline pushed me to keep fighting, but my body was betraying me. My limbs grew heavy, and my movements were sluggish. The current pulled me deeper, and the light above me faded.

This can't be the end.

I kept trying and trying, but it was useless no matter how hard I tried. The darkness closed in, and I could no longer feel anything. I'm not going to survive.

I'm sorry—to me.