The tarantula of melancholic boredom takes hold of me as my spirit waits to be set afire and turned to ashes in the hot stones of the cremator. My body twitches in one last spasm as the bell rings and I enter the final fires. The faint bells sound off as if saying, "I wish to warn you."
I remember the endless digging when they first buried me. My burial was unconventional as I was buried in a coffin, but not as a body, but as ashes. I remember in the coffin that I prayed for water and to be submerged in a river. The union of crematoria ashes and earthly water seemed pleasant to me. Wet ashes was my goal.
In the crematorium I tightened my lips and took on a sullen disposition, the floor of the coffin burning, heat bursting from all sides, this hell is beyond all endurance, my testicles scorched to sand, the fireball of my casket utterly ruined; the smells of heavy metals, the last flames spitting, a gust of wind through the tunnel, the smell of a dying fire were the last things I remembered.
Will I die from heat burn or from smoke suffocation first? Before this time, I would periodically burn my skin to harden it in preparation of the crematorium. I was a stranger to the infernal regions and thought if I pre-burned myself the pain of the final fire in hell wouldn't be so bad. I knew hell would be my final destination and wondered long ago if I could purchase a coffin with fire proof walls and contemplated if this would somehow trick Satan, resulting in me not going to hell.
One of the last things I retrospected when burning in the coffin and suffocating from the black funnels of smoke, was thinking that I would only come out of the fire half charred but still alive and thus this would be my punishment. To live eternally as a half charred corpse.
I became rabid waiting for the expectation of death. I gave my closing speech to myself and remembered that my mother told me I had died a baby and had been resurrected in my coffin by a werewolf priest.
After my cremation I thought that I would have my ashes sprayed over the motherland, but they were not. They simply sat on a crematorium pedestal, long forgotten.
Years later someone stole my urn from the pedestal and reportedly poured my ashes into a blender, mixed it with blood and then drank it. This man was reportedly the werewolf priest who had resurrected me as a child.