I'm losing my cognitive senses.
I slur words, fumble over sentences, and forget the purpose of why I was about to do something a second after I thought about doing it. I'll be useless soon, but before I get there, I've asked my wife to poison me before that time comes. I don't want to be a vegetable hooked up to hoses, plugs, and IVs while being a burden on my family. "Poison me, whatever it takes," I insist. "Just don't let me linger on like that, suffering for nothing."No false bravado for me when it's time to go. It's time to go. I've taken in everything; every color, sight, and sound is like new music. All there for me to absorb and take in. Every person is alive in the flesh and not just some random person. Everything is food for the senses. One day, while sitting at an eatery enjoying my meal and simultaneously minding my own business, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around. It was my childhood nemesis, Freddy Cordeiro. We had a long rivalry, fights, shouting, and spitting on one another. We lost touch after I moved away, but I heard that his sister Donna had been shot and killed by her boyfriend and that Mary, the oldest sister, took over after their parents died.
"Freddy, what's happening? How have you been?" I asked.
"It's been a journey," he chuckled. "I saw you over here and thought I'd come over and say hi,"
"Are you by yourself?" I asked.
"I'm here with my wife and kids," he pointed across the restaurant to a lovely Filipino woman and their children sitting on her lap. "You take care, man," he waved. "See you around."
~
When I got home later and turned on my computer, a friend request from Freddy awaited me. I accepted, and after that, I saw a message from Freddy waiting for me.
"Don't believe for a second that I hadn't forgotten what happened all those years ago, you piece of shit!"
"I don't remember," I replied. "I'm slowly losing my memory, so I'm surprised I remembered you. Please feel free to express your anger here. If I don't answer back, it means my mental facilities are completely gone."
A day later, Freddy Cordeiro appeared at my front door with a knife in his hands. It was open, so he let himself in. The living room was right there past the door, where he found me sitting on my couch, glued to the television. He rushed forward with the knife above his head, but before he could bring it plunging down into my skull, I rolled off the couch and shot him three times with my concealed carry. He hit the floor with a thud, and he was dead. I had to pretend to have cognitive problems so I could kill him like I did. Now, what other malady can I pretend to have to kill more of my classmates who got on my nerves?
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