(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

I was glad when death took me and the wet noises I was making were
silenced. The flush of acid in my lungs had grown cold even as the gas
caressed my skin. All I could feel then were the dribbles of liquid trickling
from my nose and lips, and the thud of boots in the distance.
The world was still.
Chapter 28
I'm beginning to notice something.
When a body wakes, the first thing that comes to mind is light. Vision. The
radiant glow of the dawn. There are the sounds of birds outside chirping, or
the creaks of the bed as your companion or lover rolls over. Then comes
tactile sensation: the cool air, still slightly damp even after surrendering the
morning dew. After that, the crisp, clean smell of dawn. Finally, as you stand
up a sour tang fills the mouth, one that you rinse out with a swish and a
gurgle of water.
This is the serene dance of waking.
I've heard some say that sleep is the way the body prepares for death. A
rehearsal, really, where the body slips into torpor and the soul slides to dip a
finger into the world beyond, whether it's the scintillating chaos of dreaming
(a concept I only know snatches of secondhand) or the strange burbling
lands of the dead: dark, dry, and rattling with silent madness.
Maybe there's some comparison, maybe not. I've seen no light at the end of
a tunnel, or heard the voices of my loved ones, if I ever had any. There were
no angels or devils or winding roads to lead me to whatever metaphysical
journey's end where my soul might rest. Still, I can see the appeal of the
analogy.
Because when my body twitches back to life, everything is very much the
225