I am drained, drained of hope. Drained of laughter, drained of happiness, drained of all kinds of emotion. I feel nothing, I am nothing, so don't try and help.
You might ask how, but the cause is unknown, just like most other things in my life. The only thing that is certain, is pain.
This hospital has become my home, like many others before me, and many others after me. Like Abigail, she has Multiple sclerosis (MS), it is a disease which leaves your brain and spinal cord damaged. However, unlike me she has always stayed hopeful, even though she knows it is incurable.
St Laurens could be seen as a sanctuary, a place of hope. But do you really know what goes on behind the doors? Do you know, the secret?
11:07
The day, the time, the place. Every single year. Year, after year, after year. Since the beginning, always the same, never a failure. The only thing that's different is the victim. Man, woman or child. Everyone gets a turn, there is no escape. But no one knows who will be next.
Every day, at home your parents will tuck you in and say goodnight. But not for me, my parents never visit, as soon as I got admitted to the hospital and diagnosed with GBS, they have abandoned me. But anyway, they'll be no sleeping for tonight. Tonight, is the dreaded night, the 11th day of the 7th month. And 11:07 is just creeping nearer.
In the dead of night, when all is dark, when nobody moves, but nobody sleeps. That's when they come.
Everyone lies still, not daring to breathe, maybe if you're dead, they'll chose someone else, maybe they won't take you. It's been the same long before I came and will be the same long after I go. People wish to sleep, hoping the morning will come soon, but fear keeps everyone awake.
The screams that pierce the morning air jolts exhausted patients out of a terrified trance, the sleepless night over, but signalling the beginning of a day of terror and years of grief. People run to the source of the screams. Always three. A doctor, a nurse and a friend. And this year, one of those three screams is mine.
Her bed is empty, unmade and lonely. She is gone. Abigail, the girl whose smile could make my darkest days brighter, was gone. And so I ask myself the same question I have been asking myself all these years.
Why?
