March 1965
That Final Call
He'd memorized the number but waited two killing months to use it
JANUARY 2 was the day I was going to die. I knew it. I was no longer a person. I consisted solely of a small burning knot near the middle of the bed, a knot that extended through nothingness to the thin crust of body that somehow held the blankets up. Any minute the crust would crumble like a long ash from a cigarette and I would suddenly become nothing.
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