He had just sat there quietly, staring out the window at the gray sky, his face the epitome of exhaustion and pain and regret, and Dominic still wonders if he’s an angel. Even as he's leaving the front doors of the hospital. Not the good kind. An angel sent down from heaven to torture him with the knowledge of seeing someone go through the stages of grief his family and friends had to go through when seeing him on his death bed. To remind him how selfish he was – still is, probably.
He doesn't know if it's selfish. Everyone tells him that it's selfish. But all he can think about is doing it again. All he can think about is how wonderful it felt to be lifeless in those few moments he was bridging life and death. And, if it was really that selfish, then why does he so badly wish for
