If I were to die tomorrow... if I were to be destroyed, would I simply laugh? If I were to be wiped from existence, would I eagerly agree to my obliteration with a sickening smirk?
What would happen to me?
Would I be surrounded in a brilliant light and float up into the skies? Engulfed in hellfire as I descend into Satan's accursed lair? Would I reawaken, drenched in the water of the womb, or dream on unwillingly, a prisoner to the machinations that keep me under the ultimate bondage?
Or would I perhaps float in an endless void, a tiny speck in a vast, uncaring universe, with infinity casting me a nasty glare?
... An unsettling discomfort in his stomach churns -- he feels a cold, terrifying sense of dread...
Mayhap I would enjoy the longest of rests; a warm comfort filling me as I drift off into an endless "sleep," glazed eyes staring down infinity with a peculiar, loving gaze?
How would I die? Would it be painful? Or painless?
Would thousands of flames scorch my body, charring me to a fine crisp as I beg for the mercy of the divine fire? Only to be collected and scattered once more on the hallowed grounds on which memories were built?
Would I be trapped in the ocean's waves, screaming for non-existent help as I'm slowly being pulled down into the depths of my derelict subconsciousness?
Would I look up to see the sun's fine rays amidst a swirl of blue, the vibrant shade fading away to a dark, black smudge that slowly obscures my vision as I flail my limbs helplessly?
I would eventually I pass, floating in my watery grave.
Would I meet my end by suffocation? The cold hands of an insane murderer wrapping around me, his devious smile being the last thing to burn in my glassy eyes?
The last gulp of air would surely be bittersweet; carrying on the tepid scent of decay to my collapsed lungs.
Or would I be charred to a crisp with a thousand of bolts, each frying my precious vital organs and brain to a fine mush with the true light that separates the marrow from the bone? The soul from the vessel?
... Would I be missed?
Would people remember me as a friend, father, and husband? Would my name be remembered? Would my dear wife cry, holding her -- our -- child as they stand in front of my closed casket, a single rose being thrown to dig deep into the fine wood with its thorns?
Or... would they not care?
Would they refuse to remember me? They would ignore my death. My name would never be spoken of again, down to when all existence is destroyed.
I would be forgotten; I'd truly be dead. Never to be heard of again in neither written word nor the echoing utterances of the clergy's soft tongue.
It seems that the discomfort has grown. He feels tears welling up, but never leaving his eyes. A worried expression is fixed upon his face, and a crushing blow has put a dent in his heart. He is much too weak for the divine cleansing of harsh metal eroding away at the skin and bone. The mental pangs have indeed grown and manifested; he had been voided in spirit, and all that remained was the resonating hollowness.
... I'm just the vibration of a clump of atoms that just so happened to cluster together; a truly unique and impossible combination that would -- very soon -- come to its end. I will eventually dismantle; break apart. And I -- the result of that miracle combination -- would drift apart for all eternity. And I would be gone; floating in an unimaginable void, where even sadness can't exist...
A disturbing smile curls across his lips; the smile of a mad man... He sits there, pleasantly staring at a white wall... A flash of inspiration streaks across his mind like a painter's brilliant red elegantly gliding along a dull white canvas. It wouldn't be the only thing that would be painted red that day...
It seems to me there is only one way to find out. I know what I must do.
Andrew sat up from his bed, slouching casually. He gave one look at the empty spot beside him, and grimaced. On the nightstand, a gun and a few pornographic magazines laid there. However, their owner only needed one of them. Hesitantly, he picked up the gun with his pale blue hands and raised it to his temple and squeezed the trigger excitingly. The bullet tore through his skull and exited through the back of his head.
The linen sheets were once again sodden with blood, and Andrew's lifeless body fell backward, hitting the red walls with a squishy thud. Bits of skin and brain matter hung from the wound, and his glassy eyes welcomed death with a warm stare. This marked the end of an entire family's existence.
The bony fingers of the nonexistent ceased and ripped Andrew's wayward soul from this life, and the last living member of his family, Andrew Stevenson, joined the rest of his family in nonexistence.
The rest of the world remained oblivious to both the tragic end and the inevitability of death...