Bullshit and preferences.
She lies on her bed, faceup, for hours. And hours. Listens to Portishead. Stares at the fan.
She wonders what dying would feel like. She wonders if she would ever have the courage to end a human life. Someone else’s. Her own.
She’s in her fifth hour. She stares at a spider on the ceiling, watches as it patiently spins itself a home. Tomorrow morning the cleaning woman will come and sweep it away. She wonders if it knows. Surely the same has happened to its mother, and its father, and its various other relatives?
Spiders never learn.
She thinks of rocket bombs suddenly crashing through the ceiling, debris and pieces of cement and brick on top of her, crushing her, weighing her down.
She imagines being trapped under a large piece of plaster, she imagines her ribcage crushed, she images coughing because of dust-and-rubble clouds in the air, imagines not being able to call out for help, imagines dying.
They’ll find her there later. They’ll come running when they hear the crash. But by the time they arrive, it’ll be too late.
Death by asphyxiation.