A stupid end

For the first time in his life, he felt like a container, a container of life, in the form of blood, moods and lungs, and that something else that nobody had ever seen but everybody felt, or thought they felt. And his container had just been punctured by three well aimed bullets that had crossed his body from behind.
He felt his life, strength and will, flowing outside of him, escaping through those relatively tiny holes. And together with them, his memories, his nightmares and dreams... his fears and desires. All flowing as if they were just there retained, against their will. Leaving. Leaving for nowhere, apparently, except for an empty floor.

His shooter passed in front of him. He was not even watching him die. The bastard was despising the mess he had just created. And worse, he didn´t care himself. His last thoughts were dumb, slow, intrascendent. Futile. He could not figure out why he was dying, and coulnd´t care, even if he felt he should. Maybe death was just that... not caring, not wanting, not feeling. Then it was all white, pale and intense, and then pitch black, as a television set being shut. An old one, the new ones didn´t do that anymore. But who cares. He certainly didn´t. It was all black. No noise at all. It was empty. It wasn´t, actually.