My name is Dimitry Fedotov Vitienko, forgive me the spelling if I got those words wrong, I only found out my name a few hours back. My name is Dimitry Fedotov Vitienko, I have 40 seconds to live.
My wife’s white knuckled hands are pressed down on my throat. I’m not struggling, it suits me, I’m lazy. From here I can look back, imagine, remember.
I thought I was David, or Daniel, or Thomas. Or something else blander than those. She knew who I was when I didn’t. Now I know, she has orders to kill me.
It saves me the bother of waking, rearranging my living conditions or changing my bank cards and passports. As the margin of seconds gets slimmer and warmer, I think of the slobbering dog that left spit on the chairs and shed hairs that cogged up the hoover. Imagine, remember, remembering imagining, from here I do all in all orders. That’s all I did anyway, I’m lazy.
It doesn’t matter I didn’t know all my children, seems they wouldn’t have known me anyhow. It’s warmer, it’s ending, it’s easy.
So she knew, and I know, now she knows that I know, and that sets up some kind of danger. I must had some kind of reason (I knew it!). I wonder how close I