Helpless Horrors
1.
Death crawls up at you. You know its coming for you. You can sense it's there. Like some indescribable figure, or sensation, making the skin on your back raise.
Behind me the monitor captures my heart rate on a screen, and marks it on paper. It's slow. One up. Down. Paper slowly comes out. One up. Down. It continues. Only stopping when I do.
It yells at me. 'Your dying you idiot! There's no one here for you. Giving you flowers. Wishing you well. Your on your own. And it's all your fault.'
The clock on the wall taunts me, counting down he finally hours, minutes, seconds, of my life. The one that I screwed over.
The doctors know I'm here. Why don't they help? Am I that helpless. That unneeded. They can't come in, ask me if I need anything. Is it because I'm different. That I'm cut. That I'm half here. Is it that I'm not sane. Can't they understand I'm still human. Still feel, touch, sense their presence. Know they can help, but push me aside. Like garbage. Just because I'm a little different?
I hold on. It's what I have to do. No one here is willing to help. It's me who helps my almost lifeless body. Not doctors. Not friends. Not family. I have no one.
Captured. What else do I need. Once I'm better, once I'm out. Will someone help?
I catch people walking by, they stare. It doesn't bother me. Stare at me, like art on a wall. Maybe its more like a filthy dog. Unwanted. On an abandoned lot. That must be it. They look at me in horror.
Behind me the monitor captures my heart rate on a screen, and marks it on paper. It's slow. One up. Down. Paper slowly comes out. One up. Down. It continues. Only stopping when I do.
It yells at me. 'Your dying you idiot! There's no one here for you. Giving you flowers. Wishing you well. Your on your own. And it's all your fault.'
The clock on the wall taunts me, counting down he finally hours, minutes, seconds, of my life. The one that I screwed over.
The doctors know I'm here. Why don't they help? Am I that helpless. That unneeded. They can't come in, ask me if I need anything. Is it because I'm different. That I'm cut. That I'm half here. Is it that I'm not sane. Can't they understand I'm still human. Still feel, touch, sense their presence. Know they can help, but push me aside. Like garbage. Just because I'm a little different?
I hold on. It's what I have to do. No one here is willing to help. It's me who helps my almost lifeless body. Not doctors. Not friends. Not family. I have no one.
Captured. What else do I need. Once I'm better, once I'm out. Will someone help?
I catch people walking by, they stare. It doesn't bother me. Stare at me, like art on a wall. Maybe its more like a filthy dog. Unwanted. On an abandoned lot. That must be it. They look at me in horror.