don't want to die without any scars

Morgawr screamed.

Blood gushed out of her throat; it almost felt like it bubbled as her paws were thrown up, desperately fighting with instinctual strength that grew more and more futile. She was making sounds that didn't feel real, like a siren high above her but even louder, ripping open her ears as well. All she could taste was salty metal and terror. She choked on her own life's blood and then kept shrieking. No words, no pleas for mercy, or anger. Nothing was left in her soul but the feeling of fighting for her own life. She was going to die. And the irony of it was that she couldn't say sorry even if she tried.

As her vision darkened, her screams gurgled and then were fully cut short. Her mouth remained open but it made no sound, no matter how hard she pushed or how much she wanted to howl for surrender, salvation, anything. It would be horrifying if she had the strength left to care.

They say that your life flashes before your eyes before you die. Morgawr's life had been short and boring, nothing like the fantasies she dreamed so often of: family she rarely spoke to beyond a few passing how do you do's, a pack she'd never felt a true part of. She was a child still, she saw, and now she would never get to grow up. The last stage of grief was acceptance; Morgawr felt almost at peace as she faded into unconsciousness, with a twinge of resigned regret. She would have no chance to express some cool last words. She would not be remembered.

Speech