The room was a cage of shadows, its stillness broken only by the muted hum of the ancient air conditioning unit in the corner.
I jolted awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my skin clammy with sweat. The nightmare lingered, a ghost of the battlefield replaying itself in sharp, vivid flashes.
Faces I could barely remember. Sounds I could never forget. The pounding of my heart echoed in my ears, a relentless rhythm against the silence.
"F*ck me"
I muttered, running a hand over my face. My fingers came away slick, trembling faintly. My body ached, every joint and muscle a reminder of battles fought and wounds earned.
The table next to my bed was cluttered with debris of my routine. The empty amber pill bottles jostled against the lone survivor of the night's escapades, a half-full bottle of brandy. A glass was nowhere to be seen, and I didn't need one.
With a groan that echoed the grind of old machinery, I reached for the pills. My fingers fumbled with the cap, but years of stubborn determination saw it finally yield. I shook a handful into my palm and stared at them for a long moment.
"Bone apetite motherf*cker"
I muttered, tipping the pills back and chasing them with a swig of brandy. The burn in my throat was sharp and familiar, a numbing balm to the storm in my head.
The meds began their slow creep into my system, dulling the edges of pain and panic. I let out a heavy sigh, the tension in my shoulders easing just enough for me to sit up. Every motion was a small war; my body protested with aches that screamed louder than the memories.
Swinging my burly hairy legs off the bed was the first hurdle. My knees cracked like dry twigs, and my feet hit the cold floor with a thud. The cold tile sent a shock through my system, grounding me.
"Alright, you old grumpy bastard. Let's get this over with,"
I muttered to myself.
The walk to the bathroom was an odyssey. Every step sent jolts of pain through my hips and spine, and my ankles threatened mutiny. Reaching the doorframe, I leaned heavily against it, panting from the effort.
The bathroom light flickered as I turned it on. The harsh white glow illuminated the wreck of a man in the mirror, a tangle of unkempt gray hair, a face weathered by years and booze, and eyes that seemed older than the rest of me.
My arms still bore the faint outlines of burly muscle, but the beer belly protruding beneath my sweat-stained T-shirt told the rest of the story.
"Damn dude, you've aged like a fine... sack of sh*t,"
I said, chuckling bitterly. My laughter echoed against the tiles, hollow and mirthless.
Relieving myself was a chore. Every twinge and pang reminded me that my body was no longer mine, it belonged to time, to scars, to the weight of years and regrets.
I washed my hands slowly, staring into the mirror. Water dripped from the faucet in rhythmic beats that matched the pounding in my skull.
Back in the room, I surveyed the battlefield that was my one-room apartment. The bed, unmade and stained with sweat.
The coffee table, littered with empty bottles and takeout containers. The walls, yellowed with age and neglect. A small kitchenette stood in one corner, a relic of my half-hearted attempts at normalcy.
I shuffled over to it, pulling open the fridge with a creak that set my teeth on edge. Eggs. Bread. Butter. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
As I cracked the eggs into the pan, the sizzle of butter offered a brief reprieve from the silence. The toaster hummed faintly, and soon the comforting smell of breakfast filled the air. I poured myself a cup of coffee, black and bitter, and sank into the lone chair by the window.
The TV remote sat on the table, sticky with G*d-knows-what. I clicked the power button, and the screen blinked to life, spewing news of the same old disasters, wars in distant lands, corruption scandals, and the latest corporate overlords vying for dominance.
"World's gone to hell like usual..."
I muttered, taking a sip of coffee. The warmth did little to ease the pounding in my head. I stared at the screen, barely listening, my thoughts a swirling mass of discontent.
What had it all been for? Twenty-five years in the service, fighting wars that meant nothing in the end. Medals gathering dust in a drawer. A body that was a patchwork of scars, each one a memory I'd rather forget. And now, just another grumpy old bastard waiting for the one time apointment with the grim reaper.
I leaned back in my chair, the wood groaning under my weight of 100 kilograms. The thought came unbidden, creeping in like a thief in the night: How much time do I even have left? A year? Maybe two? The doctors had been polite but firm, my body was giving out. The liver, the lungs, the joints, they all had a finite clock, and I was racing toward the end.
The TV blared, cutting through my brooding. An advertisement flashed across the screen, bright and polished in its promise.
"Second Chances Corp. presents the Future of Preservation."
The voiceover was smooth, almost hypnotic.
"Cryogenic freezing for the bold. Secure your body today, so the future can bring you back better than ever."
The camera panned over sleek facilities, happy faces, and glowing testimonials. The fine print scrolled across the bottom, almost too fast to read.
"Cryogenic technology currently irreversible. Unfreezing capabilities under development. Participation is voluntary and at own risk."
I stared at the screen, my coffee growing cold in my hands. The idea was absurd. Freezing myself? Betting on a future I'd never see?
"Bullsh*t,"
I muttered, but the thought wouldn't let go. What did I have to lose? A few more years of this? Waking up in sweat-soaked sheets, choking down pills and booze just to function? A body that felt like a prison with every step?
The commercial ended, replaced by more news of political scandals. But the seed had been planted. I set my coffee down and leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
"Maybe…"
I whispered, the word hanging in the stale air.
I reached for my laptop, an ancient brick of a machine that took longer to boot up than it was worth. My fingers hesitated over the keys, then began typing.
"Second Chances Corp."
The website was as flashy as the ad sleek designs, testimonials, promises of a brighter tomorrow. There was a number to call, a form to fill out.
I stared at the screen, my heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with my health. Was I really considering this? Trusting some faceless corporation to preserve what was left of me?
The cursor blinked, waiting for my decision.
"F*ck it,"
I said finally, typing in my information.