The days pass and blend together. Amid the turmoil of my routine, Andy visits me daily. Despite my stagnant bad mood, she persists in trying to bring a semblance of joy to my face, never succeeding.

From an outside perspective, I appear to be doing well. My physical condition improves; I regain strength and mobility. After two months in a coma, my muscles have weakened considerably, and I reluctantly submit to shoulder and walking rehabilitation exercises. Drained of any will to continue, my survival instinct has taken over my body, disabling my brain and forcing me, like a puppet, to fight. From his glove, it envelops my hand to keep feeding me. With his breath, it inflates my lungs to keep me alive. Under its insidious grip, I perform physical therapy exercises even though I know they likely won't serve me for long.

Perhaps that's why Andy doesn't lose hope of seeing me smile at each of her visits. To her, this hostage situation might be simple proof that my desire for life still flickers. But in reality, it's quite the opposite.

Even as my desire to leave this life grows with each passing day, I remain pragmatic. I know that the moment my cardiac monitor stops emitting that damned regular beep, a horde of nurses and doctors will bring me back to life. Painfully, I would have to breathe, eat, strengthen, and ultimately live again as punishment for postponing the inevitable. In a final act of generosity, I spare the medical staff efforts that will end up being in vain. As a model patient, I wait, driven only by the desire to recover quickly to immolate myself with the hope of ending it all soon.

Today, more than other days, the dazzling sun blooms the flower of my depression, its petals unfurling under the warm rays of the star. Like pollen swirling in the wind, my malaise spreads throughout my body, withering each of my cells of their wish for life.

Curled up in a fetal position in my bed, the sheet serving as a funereal filter against the sunlight's brightness, I feel broken, devastated. Wrapped in my turmoil, I hear light footsteps entering my room.

"I said I didn't want any visitors today," I grumble under the sheets.

"Not even death ?" responds a feminine voice I don't recognize.

With a swift motion, I pull the fabric away and sit up. In undisguised dismay, I freeze upon seeing Alma, that crazy journalist and Ezio's ex.

"Hi May, you look even more horrible than I thought," she mokes, settling on the edge of my bed near my hips.

I back away and stare at her.

"How unfortunate that it was you who survived. I'll have to kill you," she announces calmly and detachedly. "If you had died in the cold like the parasite you are, I wouldn't have had to come here, and everyone would have been happier."

"I hope you don't plan on missing your mark because it would bother me to have to do it myself," I retort wearily with a hint of apprehension.

Despite her apparent calm, I notice a slight raising of her eyebrows and the clenching of her jaw, a sign that my response and detachment were not what she anticipated. In a blink, her destabilization gives way to a dark, threatening look.

"Believe me, you won't be so smug once I inject this poison into you. You will agonize slowly under my watch. You will experience the suffering you inflicted on all of us by marrying Ezio and leading him to his demise. You didn't deserve him, and God Himself called him back to take him away from your clutches," she spits venomously.

I burst into a nervous laugh that quickly becomes uncontrollable. As I calm down, I find Alma disconcerted by my reaction. The fury of her wounded ego reddens her cheeks as her eyes arm themselves with invisible bullets.

"Sorry, but I believe God had nothing to do with it. If there's one place Ezio ended up, it's unfortunately in hell."

"You're not even saddened by his loss ! You laugh while he's six feet under because of you ! You're pathetic and completely insane !"

"Oh, believe me, of the two of us, I'm far from being the most pathetic lunatic. Thinking I don't suffer more than you from losing my husband makes you crazier than I thought. You meant nothing to him, just a nuisance to avoid. Don't give yourself more importance than you actually had. I sincerely pity you. You don't truly live your life and imagine being important to someone who only felt contempt for you. You make me want to vomit."

She punches me, but it feels more like a caress compared to the blow Fabio had given me a few months earlier. Without giving her action any more importance, I turn my head back to her and smile.

"Well, are you going to kill me or not ?"

She smiles back and pulls out a syringe with a needle on the end.

"This, my dear, is your way out. This simple liquid will take away all your torment, all your pain, and all your emotions. It will empty your body of all negativity and suffering. It will free your soul, making it light enough to reunite with your dear Ezio. Here is your exit, your escape, your most cherished wish. Earlier, when I said I was going to inject you with this poison, it was actually nothing. You will agonize slowly, surviving this tragedy you caused, waking up each day without Ezio by your side, seeing his face every time you close your eyes. Every insignificant object or situation in your miserable life will immediately remind you of him and make you realize how alone and miserable you are, all because of you. You deserve what's happening to you, May Madini. You alone are responsible for his death and that of your bastard son. If they are both dead, it's because they deserved better than a wife and mother like you. You deserve only hatred, suffering, and loneliness. Ultimately, I will leave here not having killed you physically but morally. Seeing your face, I think I've accomplished my mission. See you soon, either in real life or in the obituaries."

Enraged, I don't give her time to get up before grabbing her syringe and violently stabbing it into her neck, injecting the liquid. Without emotion, I watch her try to pull it out as she glares at me with wide eyes. With a dull thud, she falls from the bed, dead, with a trickle of foamy drool at the corners of her lips.