January 16th 1908. The day I died. I was twenty-four, and had just gotten my licence to practice medicine. My thesis had been on tuberculosis, a disease that had plagued humanity for as long as anyone could remember. In a cruel twist of fate, tuberculosis exacted revenge on me. I have no doubt that I caught it during my research, and it had only developed into the active stage some six months after, during the following, particularly bitter winter.

It could've been mistaken for a general malaise or passing cold for the first fortnight or so. After the third week, fevers came and went, as did a general feeling of weakness. I knew what it was by then, but had neither the strength or the humility to accept it. I took a leave of abscence from my place at the hospital, and used my limited savings to pour my efforts into finding a cure. While I knew such a thing was, at the time, the stuff of fantasy, I was desperate to continue living. Medical science was reaching its limit, and quickly.

Once I had exhausted medical means, I turned to the occult. I held no belief in such things prior, and honestly went to my death a skeptic, but desperation was a powerful agent in opening my mind. My studies had brought me into correspondence with a Dr. Silas Harrow, an anthropologist and authority on tribal and occult medical rituals. So comprehensive was the breadth and depth of his knowledge, that one wondered reading his lengthy, immensely detailed letters, how one lifetime could allow him the time to learn so much.

Although well-travelled in his day, and once a prominent figure within the faculty of his university, it seemed a progressive skin disease had sequestered him to his countryside home, and he was rarely, if ever, seen outside the manor's red-brick walls.

I began to cough up blood that November. My skin was now drawn tight over my bones, and ghoulishly pale. My days were spent in delerium with fever, or shivering uncontrollably. Nights were punctuated by bouts of sweating, and what sleep I got, was often mired by nightmares.

I knew, at best, I had two months. Mentioning this to Dr. Harrow in a letter, and informing him that he was to be bequeathed any of my research upon my death, his response came with a package. Wrapped in brown paper and string, and within a hinged wooden box lay a vial of brownish-red liquid, stuck to which was a label, marked in Harrow's spidery handwriting as "Panacea." A syringe had been packaged seperately. A paper tag on the syringe read, "For the last moment."

I hadn't the faintest idea what this panacea actually was, and as such, was hesitant to take it. I thought I'd have a few weeks to find an alternative, keeping it as a last resort, but, as fate would have it, two days later, my hand would be forced.

The day started as any other, as I went about my necessary tasks for the day, but, as I poured over a textbook on immunology, I was struck by a violent coughing fit, which in itself was hardly unusual, but it's ferocity was beyond that of anything I'd had before. I collapsed to the ground from my chair, convulsing, feeling as if I had inhaled broken glass, unable to regulate my own breathing. Deep crimson blood leaked from my mouth with each hacking attempt at breathing.

Once the attack had abated, something felt off. While my chest was still burning, I sensed a pressure on either side of my chest, growing more intense with each breath taken. I knew what this was all too well. My lungs were hemmoraging, out into my chest cavity. I'd either exsanguinate or suffocate. I needed the panacea, and fast.

Dazed and blurry-minded, I hauled myself to my bed, where the panacea lay in wait. I grabbed it, and the syringe, struggling to control my failing body long enough to prepare a dose. Once I had filled it, I plunged the needle deep into my chest, hoping to hit a pulmonary artery, even the heart or aorta, and pressed the plunger. I scarcely registered the pain, or the fact a surface vessel would've been far easier.

I collapsed onto my bed, after that, black spots dancing in front of my vision, drawing in ever-thinner breaths as my life ebbed. I didn't feel the sense of peace that supposedly came upon one's death, nor did I see any radiant light, beckoning me to come closer. I felt alone, and like I was in freefall. My vision was tunnelling, becoming darker, and it was cold. Half-forgotten memories drifted in and out of focus, my childhood, moving to London, my studies. All trifling things when faced with my impending demise.

If I was regretful, I could not say. Perhaps I could draw some solace from the fact I may have saved others from a similar fate. I had no real friends, and my brother was old enough to help support the family back home, now that I wouldn't be able to send money over. The insurance payout would be the only real goodbye I gave, and was possibly the one that would be most appreciated.

Severerance was the word that came to mind, as I slipped out of conciousness, deeper into the black ichor, the pain was gone, I had been seperated from the world, from the disease that claimed me and the body that had crumbled away as I sought to cure it.

All there was now was silence.