Quinn feels like drowning in the ocean, where the water drains his warmth. His chest is throbbing with pain like a great white shark has bitten through it. Rows of dagger-like teeth pierce his flesh, feast on his blood and flesh.

  Blood puddles like paintballs when they carry all the velocity from the paintball gun and explode on someone's paintball mask. The pressured water from faucet quickly flushes the splash of blood puddle in the sink from the sink.

  From the mirror, Quinn realises how wan and pale he looks. His good looks are not yet completely diminished. His long and wavy dark hair is fluffy and messy, streak of hair sticking to his forehead from cold sweat. His sharp jawline looks more chiseled from emaciated cheeks. He has not been able to eat well and sleep peacefully. 

 Quinn wipes blood from the corner of his mouth and makes sure there are no stains on his collar before exiting the restroom. 

  He does not remember how he walks back to the doctor's office, his mind is burdened and foggy. He stares at the doctor's face when he quickly fixes his glasses. He sees wrinkles stretch and contrast around his cheeks. The doctor glances at Quinn before getting back to the exam report he is holding. No emotions, this is not the first time this doctor has had to break bad news to someone; every day, someone is dying from some illness.  The young man who sits in front of him is no different. But the doctors feel slightly bothered, he still hates patients who are younger than him, facing death. He is fifty-six this year, but he's still not ready to go down to the death's red carpet over a long and twisted spiral staircase.

  "...I'm sorry, but from the result of your MRI and blood test..."

  Quinn cannot concentrate on what the doctor is saying. His mind is blank, sounds cannot stir the pale and ghostly fog away, and he is lost in the dark forest in his mind.

  "You have three months left, however, the treatment is..."

 Three months, that's all he heard, like the sound waves from the ringing of the Mingun Bell in Myanmar crashing his skull from inside. 

  The world around him distorts, and powerful dizziness swirls through his body. He walks out of the office in a rush, like there's a volcano that's going to burst. He craves some fresh air, cold sweat slides down from his forehead.  The doctor calls out behind him, and Quinn realises how he might have startled the doctor with his reaction. 

  His steps are weak but fast-paced toward the exit, where the end of this nightmare might be before his left foot kicks on something metal with wheels. 

  Quinn snaps his head to face the old man he has just bumped into. 

  He may be a thousand-year-old mummy. Wrinkles like uncountable ripples caused by gusts are etched on his dry face like the linen bandages wrapping around the walking dead. Quinn meets his dead fish eyes, and shadows from this man's sagging eyelids look like there are two empty sockets. 

  Is this part of a horror movie that he is in? Quinn quickly asks himself.

  "I'm sorry..."

  "Mhhhh..." The old man's bony left arm seems nearly broken as it clings to the IV pole from the bump.

  Quinn thinks the old man's face is zooming in, it gets bigger and bigger. The hot air is like cotton soaked with warm water, quantified enough to block his airway.  

  Death, crawling out of the old man from behind, its invisible tentacles spread, eager to strangle any life around them.

   

   "I'm sorry..." Quinn cannot move his legs, but he wants to run away. 

    

   "Please..." his voice cracks.

 

   "Please... let me..." Quinn looks at the old man's face, his eyes cannot move away from him.

    

   The pungent rotten smell of death wafts to Quinn's nose, and the face of the mummified old man is nailed in his vision.