I haven’t been able to hold down solid food for more than ten days, and I was starving before.

I’m going to die soon.

It’s the dizziness that gets me. The vomiting left me sore but numb, but the dizziness?  Sometimes I scream into my pillow and try to make it stop, but it never does.

I used to scream and cry from fear, but that’s mostly passed. I think life wasn’t meant for me…to feel it slipping away doesn’t seem to hurt like it should anymore.

Now and again I pass out from exhaustion, but I don’t get restful sleep. In my dreams I’m spinning and drowning, and I wake up after a few minutes to vomit up what little water I’ve been able to hold down.

Well, anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to read any of that. I’m transcribing this as a memoir, after all.

A memoir that nobody will read, written by someone with nothing to write about.

It’s perfect.

I have nothing else to do.  Transcribing helps me pretend to ignore the vertigo and pretend someone will read this someday and care, at least.

I grew up here.  Not here, the city, but here, my flat. Twenty four years.

I’ve managed to eke out some existence here, among the rubble.  But it looks like my life will have been as pointless and messy as my death is sure to be.

I’m the son of a coyote named Maraiki and some dumb vixen he knocked up. She snuck out shortly after I was born. I got his height, and her everything-else.

Meh.

My dad … I think he was good, just trying to scrounge enough for two. He kept me alive, anyway.  He always gave me the better of what he found.

Pretty sure he died to a crazy or a robber. Maybe factory security, though I guess probably not. He just never came home one day in my sixth or seventh year, and that was that. I never scrounged with him, so I had to learn how on my own. Pretty simple, though, when you’re hungry.

I always imagined he was off somewhere on a secret mission, and would come  back and take me away with him.

Just had a bad dizzy spell. I’m really tired now.  Too tired to talk more.

This could be it.