This is a story I wrote many years ago, having spent too long reading too much of Edgar Allan Poe's science fiction:
The manner of my uncle’s death came as a shock to us all. That he had experimented on himself we found not at all surprising, it was the gruesome nature, and uncertainty that experimentation was the cause of his death that disturbed us. That disturbed me.
Following, please find a little piece of fiction I concocted.
Tomas woke up with a smile.
“Ah,” he said with some not small degree of delight as he felt the warm sun on his face, shining in through the plexiglass window. “It certainly is wonderful to be alive!” he said. Tomas closed his eyes and stretched in his bed. He contemplated as he wiggled his toes the day before him: it was Tuesday the 26th of June, and he had probably 37.59 minutes before he had to even leave the house.