What would a man on the edge of his life be most concerned about?
For some, I'm guessing it's the life they've been living.
Of the good things or the bad ones, all flashing by while surrounded by their loved ones.
Either way, that's a solid answer, if I say so myself.
While for others, perhaps it's how long until their soul departs from their flesh, eager to finally meet the Lord.
As for me... I regret how I chose to die quite a bit.
Wasn't there an easier method than suffocation, I wonder?
It was a little hasty of me to just use the old electrical wire, I suppose.
Almost makes me regret doing it at all.
But the image of my happy family, seeing me walk out of the house after so long...
Strangely enough, that little regret forming in the corner of my heart began to quickly disappear.
Unlike today, when I was younger, I thought there was nothing to fear.
But when I imagined my mother, whose eyes had become sunken and whose skin had started to develop stretch marks, I finally recognised I wasn't so courageous.
No.
Maybe that's a lie...
At the end of my life, I ought to be at least honest with myself, shouldn't I?
...I'd known I was a coward.
Ever since gaining my conscience, so long as I put minimal effort in, anything was easy—exams, sports, even little things like fixing my bike.
By the time I was 10, I could already hold fluent conversations in five different languages.
For such a brilliant child, it was humanly impossible not to have a certain level of pride.
After all, he always emerged victorious, no matter the challenge.
The sheer amount of gold medals I received from various activities—like chess, mathematics, football, volleyball, and other sports—made my room appear as if it belonged to a child Emperor.
But like every illustrious empire, the downfall began with a simple failure.
This first real failure hit hard, and the boy never recovered.
It was so simple for everyone else, yet the boy was such an arrogant little shit that he refused to acknowledge it for an extended length.
He couldn't leave his bedroom for a month or two... Maybe longer...
Though I would still say that it wasn't the child's fault that he failed.
He felt particularly narcissistic that year... Perhaps life was too boring, unchallenged.
So prior to his final exams, he was often out in the city.
Hiding his age, with some deception he found himself a lady, with whom—alcohol in hand until late at night—he discussed the geopolitical and philosophical issues of the world.
As it turns out, this wasn't the best for his education.
In his simple mind, it was like every other year, and he would just cram the entire course a month before the examination.
But as fate would have it, when you associate yourself with bad people, it's only natural that you copy their behaviour.
From a moment he couldn't exactly recall, the boy became addicted to alcohol.
Such a lame thing to be addicted to, but it really fucked him up, so he failed.
The news shocked him greatly, to the point that he forgot everything—even his newfound companions and the habit that he had picked up recently.
Even so, he'd still fully trusted in his capability to achieve whatever he desired at a moment's notice.
Yet he hadn't a clue why the only thing he could discuss with his online friends was how the current education system had failed.
Looking back, it was probably just to hide his shame.
As anyone can predict, it went downhill from there.
To be honest, bad luck played a part too.
When he repeated the year, the plague hit, and lockdown followed quickly.
He enjoyed skipping online classes then, instead he prefers playing video games while chatting with his online friends.
For the second time, he failed the year.
Now, as my strength dwindles, I think back and feel sorry for the kid with those colourful, hopeful dreams.
It was all my fault.
And...
To my family who would have to clean up after me again...
... Forgive me this one last time.