My hands are around my throat as I am flipping and shaking around on the ground like a fish out of water. I can’t breathe, and I can feel a burn in my lungs growing. There’s a lump of food in my throat blocking my airway, and no one has seemed to take notice. I couldn’t help but to grow hateful to those around me as the thoughts of my dying started sinking in. Why isn’t anyone helping me?

It is only in the moments where the fire in my lungs cease that I realize that I am reliving my death. This happens every night, at the same moments before my actual death, and I only remember that I am dead after my heart stops. Forever in this loop, I’ve somehow become subjected to reliving my death repeatedly. No one deserves this.

But I really do. This must be my hell after all the sinister things that led to what’s now lying in my basement. I wonder if they have thought to go digging up things in the crawl space? I wonder if they’ve found countless bones, and my box of souvenirs in the attic.


Images: Susanne Nilsson

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