Not Dead

The next morning Amelia comes in again. Smiling, chatting, checking up on me, making sure I don’t have any bed sores, telling me about the guy she met last night.

I try to listen, but can’t. The corruption inside of me is growing, feeding on me, tainting me.

Then she gives me my shots.

The things inside of me like the shots. They’re always more active afterwards. Always hungrier. This isn’t the first batch that I’ve had inside of me, and I can’t help but wonder how I’ve survived so many of them feeding on me. Perhaps my paralysis helps. Perhaps my body is better able to handle the internal damage because so little else is happening. Or perhaps that’s what the shots are for. Or the chalky taste.

Or maybe this was all a dream, maybe I was really in a coma and everything that was happening to me was a delusion brought about by endless self loathing.

No. I didn’t hate myself that much. I didn’t hate anyone that much.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)