Heavy lids sit on my pupils, and only the whites show as my eyes glaze over. I struggle to lift the glass to my lips. Inside, I make out the shape of my heart, now mashed to a pulp. As I take a thirsty sip, the remaining blood trickles down, and I fade out of consciousness. My hand loosens its grip on the glass. The last things I see are crystal shards in a wine red puddle.