ManyWriters

On my birthday of 49, my brain tumor had another attack.
My vision has become blurry, and my brain can no longer think clearly.
I knew that I may not have many days left to live.
The medical staff worked hard to keep me stable, and they picked up my phone to contact my families.
When the nurse dialed the 10th call, I finally heard my wife's voice, which was full of anger: "Why are you so annoying? Why do you keep calling me? I'm going to fly to Florence with Tim - don't contact me unless there's an emergency."
Then my daughter's voice came over, sounding very cold: "Mom, if this man passes away, that would be great. The insurance money can be directly transferred to my account. I have always wanted a new motorcycle."
After hearing this, I have no resentment.
Strangely, I actually feel like the burden on me is disappearing.
Perhaps it's finally time to bid farewell to this unfortunate life.

A Wake-Up Call to Let Me Escape From the Garbage

Monica stood motionless, her gaze unfocused as the mortician's statement sank in.


I hovered above, observing the unfolding scene while thoughtfully rubbing my chin.


The mortician's assessment was accurate.


Had Monica acted immediately upon sensing trouble, I might have survived. Without the system extracting me from my body, I could have lived—regardless of my wishes.


It appeared Monica had come to this realization as well.


As she processed the information, her mind raced back to those crucial moments.


What had she been doing while I was on death's doorstep?


Doubting me. Accusing me of deception. Suspecting me of theft. Even striking my lifeless form in anger.


The truth hit her with devastating force.


Her knees buckled, and she hunched over, coughing violently before expelling blood onto the floor. She swayed and fell backward.


Tim caught her just as she collapsed, calling for medical assistance as she went limp in his grasp.


Chapter 7