Not Dead

“He might be able to handle three.” The assistant argues.

“No.” The doctor shakes his head and pokes at something inside of me. “He’s done.”

Done? Am I done? Will they finally let me die?

The assistant nods and moves out of my view.

The doctor leans in, pulling a pen light which he uses to check my eyes. “Time for your miracle cure, Mr. Wilson.”

Cure? I stare at him, confused. He can’t cure me. With everything I know, with everything they’ve done to me, he can’t risk me living. He can’t . . .

About me

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. :)