I lay prone in the mud, our dwindling supply of thread count 100 sheets far too precious to be wasted on my husk.

The vision I have left, that of my left eye, is tinged with what I can only imagine is red. I've long since lost the luxury of accurate colour vision, my retinopathy won’t allow for such. The rivers of salt and iron slowly making their way into my open mouth all but confirm my suspicions though. It tastes pretty nice all things considered.

Beside me sits a shapely blue vessel filled with the noble gas of my choice (I didn't particularly care which. Some claimed neon was better, I got helium, nobody really knows) attached to a long transparent tube and a thick rubber mask; all muddy; to be used at our discretion. My discretion was quickly forthcoming.

Despite all this, I couldn’t help but be concerned about my mud covered mask. Won’t it rub off on my face? Will the dirt get in my lungs? What if it sticks? Won’t it be hard to take off?

Silly concerns.

There’s no beauty left on my face for mud to blemish.

My lungs are already full of blood.

And I’ll be dead.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Around me echo the last screams of dying women (and a few lucky men, but not nearly as many of them lasted this long). Fools, all of them. Why sign up for a suicide mission if you have anything to live for?

We all signed the forms, and any competent medical professional knew exactly what they were signing up for. A utilitarians wet dream: Send the oldest doctors and nurses you can find, extinguish a few quality years of life for the sake of millions. Quarantine and treat the patients before anything gets out of hand.

Why not get out a final good deed before you rot in the ground? Go out in glory.

Sound great; until your lymph nodes burst.

I strap the mask tightly over my face, no point wasting any, and slowly release the helium. I spend my penultimate moments grumpy, sick of the whiners ruining the ambiance.

Silly concern, I’ll soon be dead.

I’d move, but I’m no longer able.

I breathe in slowly. It (the helium) tastes like nothing; not like air, just like nothing.

My vision frosts over.

Is this how MuMu felt?

…

I no longer think.

…

I no longer see.

…

I no longer feel.

…

I am no longer.