Flirting with Death

I guess I should have seen this coming. But then again, if I knew this would be my fate, I would've done anything in my power to stop it. Anything.

I look up and see a bunch of machines, IV poles, and the same damn ceiling tiles I've stared at for months. I can see 13 of them, two lights, one sprinkler, two smaller ones put together. I look forward and see my nose and part of my legs. If I stick out my tongue I can see the tip of it. I can't see the hole in my neck.

The hole holds a tube, the key to my life. One of them. You see, I can't breathe on my own. You pull that tube out, I die in a matter of minutes. I wouldn't mind, though, I'd take it out myself if I could. But that's the thing, I can't. Ironic really, If I could pull it out, I could breathe on my own, and wouldn't need the tube, nor would I want to quit breathing and die. But I can't, so I can't do anything.

I'm trapped.

Of all the things out of my control, living each day was always my choice, I was always in control of whether I lived or died. But I'm not even in control of that anymore. It's the hospital's job to keep me alive.

They are in total control of me, I'm at their mercy. But I probably won't have to wait too long. I know death must be right around the corner, humans aren't supposed to live like this. It was unnatural, really, keeping me alive. Can't move, can't breathe, can't talk.

I really miss talking. People talk to me sometimes, doctors or nurses always tell me what they're doing, sometimes they talk about other little things. There are some other people, volunteers of some sort, who come and talk to me sometimes. I don't know whether I'm their community service project or if they just feel sorry for me and the other poor cripples, but they're nice to listen to, until they start talking about keeping my hopes up, anyway. I think it's safe to say I'm hopeless.

I hate it when somebody I know visits, though. All they do is cry and lie, about how things could be worse or how I don't deserve this. And they stare. God, do they stare. Stand over me and stare into my eyes. It kills me. I just want to reach up and punch them. I don't know whether they think I can't see them or if they think I want to see them. I know it sounds cold, but I never want to see them again. And I sure as hell don't want them to see me.

So I lay here all day and think. Just think. I try to entertain myself. I try to repeat ideas over and over in different ways until they sound philosophical, but it doesn't work, I'm not philosophical. I kind of wish I had a horrible head injury, so I couldn't think. All this thinking is driving me crazy.

That's why I like it so much when people talk to me. I like thinking about other people. Oddly enough, I like it best when they finally drop all the deep and inspirational shit and start talking about themselves. Their friends, their families, all about their jobs and schools and sports. Weird, huh? I guess since I can't be my conceited self, I let someone else do it for me. Even after they leave I keep thinking about everything they said, trying to make a movie of their life in my head.

God, I should have known better. I should have known something bad would come of that. I was almost literally flirting with death, I knew I was playing games with my life. Then again, I thought death was the worst thing that could happen to me.