Surgeons performing operation in operating room

The it wailed, moaned, rolled – although that was worse. Was there an ultimate level of pain? Could every pain be surpassed? The it didn’t have enough mental capacity to ask these questions. Or have any thought.There was only whimpering, screaming, shouting, whispering, rasping, pleading…

Just let me die” Over and over.

They would not let it die. It was something to be fixed. It was their passion. No. Its predicament was. Their challenge. They were out of reach to it. It was unable to rationalize with them. What it wanted was not rational. If they let it be like them – human – they would falter. Maybe fail. Separation and objectification – necessary. There was urgency. Compassion had no place here. Acknowledgment that they could be like it, be in its place, endangered it.

Just let me die

It was sentient enough to partially understand. Orders given out. Loud within earshot. Hurried explanations hollered at it. None of it mattering. Just do it! Or don’t. It couldn’t get worse. Agony was agony. And then it got worse.

Just let me die

It didn’t know what was happening. Mere fragments of what had been said remained. They were impossible to string together into knowledge. Its consciousness chugged and sputtered through the experience. Death no longer scared it. Living did. When it was somewhat lucid, the most important thing in the world, was not enough for it to care. Death was paramount.

Just let me die

Liquid gold was infused. Stop it. No more. It needed ‘the saving’ to cease. It was aware they would not actively end it – the saving. Nor passively. Did it have the right to die? Did its begging for an end fall on deaf ears? Was it deemed too unstable to allow the request to be fulfilled? Where did its rights end? How impaired did it need to be, before the others’ duties superseded those rights? Regardless – the choice was removed.

Just let me die

More people in the room. Surrounded it. More witnesses to the misery. The torture. Detached yet compelled. Packages opened. Paper ripped. Latex snapped. Metal on metal. Another hasty explanation. No commentary. Concentration absolute. A sudden, piercing, shooting, electric shock torment. Its side invaded. Bile rose. A fresh high-pitched cry.

Stop. Stop. Let me die.”

Hands holding it down. Forcefully. It hardly noticed. Only suffering. Beyond comprehension. Maybe a bare sense of what was being done to it. Still shrieking. FUCK! Pushing. Ripping the opened skin further. Probing deeper inside its torso. Twisting. Contorting. Impossible to determine an exact locus. Burrowing inward. Burying itself inside it. It has little awareness aide from pain. The slight cognizance propels it to cower inward. Sparks fear of a never-ending ordeal.


The persecution ends. The reduction in pain barely perceptible. The torture suspect in its absence. The it. Mind traumatized. The consuming, throbbing, aching remains. It sees gray skies. Finds it difficult to comprehend the world apart from itself. Floating outside its body. Yet unfairly tethered. It is still overwhelmed. There is onslaught after onslaught upon it. Upon its body. Firing neurons, exploding out of sync – out of harmony. It has scant, brief glimpses of minuscule relief. They come and go in waves. It does not trust either. Its body is fair game. For others. For that which is ‘not part of it’.

I want to be dead. I can’t…”  

Many minutes pass. Hours? Days? It cannot and does not care. The people from before visit. Checking on their charge. Repetitive, distant interrogations. It attempts to care. When they come, its answers alternate between raspy croaks and weeping whispers.

I don’t care if I live or die

It takes a little time for it to notice that the pain is trending downward. It is still horrendous but maybe someday it might want to live. No – be okay-ish with living. Its distress, both physical and mental, finally plateaus to a point it can communicate with the others.

This is hell. Maybe I can do it

Its morphine is restarted. Its emergency over. Movement still near impossible for it. It stares at a white coat. A torturer. A savior. It can hear his words. She understands the concepts. She can accept her situation enough to string his sentences into meaningful ideas. She can listen. Just about.

I will not die

It was she. She is me. I had open heart surgery. I lost a lot of blood. I had a mini-stroke. I could not see. I could not move one side. The wonderful and beautiful morphine was taken away. A lung collapsed. A chest tube inserted. Not even a drop of any numbing or painkilling medication. I wanted to die. My cracked chest unbearable.  Then I was ripped apart. I loved my six month old baby. The most important thing in the world. I no longer cared if I saw her again. It was not worth it. I was traumatized. For many years. I am better now. I think. Only time will tell.

I am alive

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