Zorba often thought about her—about his mother. He would stare at himself in the mirror and imagine how she might have looked like him.
He had often been told by his father that his mother possessed the same disgusting horns and that ugly third eye on her forehead.
That she had a strong personality and that he could never be as great as she was.
"I wonder what it feels like to die…"
Throughout his entire life, Zorba had killed and manipulated the corpses of those he murdered, always toying with life and death, yet never truly experiencing it himself.
The cold embrace of death—what did it feel like?
As he bled and plummeted from the skies, seconds from crashing into the ground and splattering into a fine painting of blood and guts… Zorba considered it for a moment.
He would have accepted it. He would have died gladly anyway. Deep down, nothing had ever appealed to him more than the sweet release of death.
