Death Wish

Death used to be my greatest fear. The idea of an eternity of nothingness, just complete non-existence, was a concept I failed to comprehend in even the slightest. The ambiguity of it all left my mind reeling out of control for hours on end when the thought breached my mind. But nothingness, in all of its mystery and horror, seems like a luxury in comparison to my current condition.

Strapped to a bed, unable to move, awaiting my next tormentor. They observe me from my bedside, instruments of torture in hand, poking and prodding me in the most painful spots, just hoping for a reaction to satisfy their sickening curiosities. I am nothing but an object to them, a play-toy on which to experiment.

But even with all of their tests, they fail to see the agonizing pain I am in every waking second of the day. Every square inch of my skin feels as though it is trying to tear from my muscles while my insides feel as though they’ve burned to charcoal for the fourth time today. The only reprieve I have from the misery are the pain-induced hibernations populated by countless nightmares.

Regardless of my dread of the unknown afterlife, death was now that which I prayed for day in and day out. Because they won’t let me die. I just wish I could tell them. Tell them about the endless torment I am experiencing. Tell them this coma isn’t natural. Tell them that the man who visits and “checks on” my IV daily is no relative of mine. But my suffering is silent.

At least in non-existence, there is no pain.