SHIV

[attr="class","bmstuff"]He spends three seconds accepting that he is dead. There is no beating of his core, no sign that the circular, metal heart inside his chest is working. Each individual needle, once jammed between the slits of his iron arm and plugged into a scarred vein, hang empty and slack by the IV stand. He knows he can't survive without them. Without the morphine. Without the blood. Without the nutrients. Without the frail plastic arms to hold him up, like a bridge without suspension, he'll fall.

Perhaps, he thinks, this is not death. Not yet. This is brain time. In the moment before existence and moving on, with lightening in his brain faster than a bullet. He conjures up a scenario to ease him into letting go. Sleeping feels like a good idea. 19 years is enough.

If they are lived

Isaiah lies back and looks out of the window. His eyelids are weighed down, drawn to each other. For a few seconds he resists and looks out instead. There's no sign of the Chicago skyline any more. There's no sign of anything. In this brain time, there is the hospital room and nothing else. The windows are closed and no wind presses against them. No glints of glass catching sunlight blink though the haze. They look like they are not there.