Here it is. Bitterness escapes me, as does all anger and sorrow. All that’s left is madness, with hints of fear in each short cycle of thought. My god, I think, is it too late?

I think of that rich bastard, still out there, drunken and smiling with what he’s accomplished, the thirst he’s ceased and the danger he’s avoided. Bitterness returns.

The pastor’s still reading. It’s a passage from Psalms, I can remember the same words from my mother’s lips, read to me as a child wrapped tightly in bed. Sorrow returns.

I look around to see the provost staring at me through the glass. Dear god, I think, it’s too late.

Madness returns. Laughter slips from my mouth quicker than the gas can enter. I don’t struggle to hold my lungs or close my throat, just laugh and laugh and gaze into his eyes.

He’s terrified.