Dakshana had the strangest notion that she was dying. Death was a most curious dichotomy of sensations - the burning at her throat as her air was slowly, gently, viciously cut off, the iciness creeping along her limbs and settling in the pit of her stomach until she could no longer feel. It was soft, like powder-sand sifting over her body as she sank low, low, deep into death’s embrace. It was rough, like tree-branches, wild vines, and roots scraping across her skin to make her bleed.
It was peaceful, and she could hear a man calling her name.
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