Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-4499225-20150301064232

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 to recite the same tired lie that has haunted my nightmares for months on end:



“We’re here to help you.”



They say this to me with their blades 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 endless 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, and I have no idea why. They know the diagnosis just as well as I do: comatose, cause unknown, virtually no chance of recovery.

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

  