A dull beeping is the only thing that tells me I'm still alive. There is no agonizing pain, no heartfelt wishes, no burning desires, no sobbing parents. Nothing keeping my in the world except the machines pumping oxygen into my lungs and life into my body. But nothing can really pump life back into the dead now, can it?
The doctors at some point inevitably discover that I am both awake and no longer floating on the cusp of death. Shame. So they shuttle me off to a new room with only a bed covered in white sheets, pinned down tightly so as not to be used as a weapon. There is no door to my new room, and a do-gooder in the form of a patient observer sits just outside the gaping hole in the wall that leads to my room—it's less of a room and more of a cubby, used to store the forgotten useless items that for some reason people feel the need to keep around. Privacy is not a luxury I am granted.
They guard me round the clock. It's a pointless task really; no one's coming to see me, and I'm certainly not going anywhere. The sentries switch on and off, no doubt bored out of their cheerful minds at having to watch me.
When they figure out that I'm not eating, nor do I plan to, they stick a needle into my arm, and pump glucose and water into me through that. They had tried a feeding tube, but that hadn't gone well; there was nothing stopping me from ripping the damn thing out or trying to suffocate myself with it. The I.V. is taped down copiously so that I cannot rip it out and use it as a weapon.
Therapists visit, sitting on plastic chairs brought in expressly for them, attempting to get some sort of response out of me. They are, however, unsuccessful. Hours are wasted sitting—in my case lying—in silence. And yet no one cares that I don't care. They don't care that I don't want their help, that I don't want to get better, that I just want to die already.
Why the hell won't they just let me goddamn die? I've already fucked my life up enough. Why can't they kill me before I ruin everyone else's lives as well?
Who'd want to save a pathetic fuck-up like me?
I just want to die.
Why can't they let me die?
So I just found this on my computer. I wrote it a while back when I was feeling...angsty, for lack of a better word. It wasn't written for Cam but after finding it, I have decided to turn it into a story about him, if he lived. I'm not sure if I will continue this. If people seem to like it and ask me to, then I will actually give it a plot and continue it. Anyways, let me know what you think and if you want me to continue it.
-Lia