The cold hands of destiny
Close upon my throat.
Squeezing. Clenching. Stringent.
My voice chokes
As I make a last desperate attempt to scream.
I hiccup, gasping for a whiff of oxygen.
Dark. Everything around me is growing menacingly somber.
My Brain. Puzzled. Overwrought.
It fails to catch a glimpse of even the faintest ray of light.
The figures surrounding my bed slowly blurs.
I fall. Am falling. Still falling.
The vapor of Anesthesia fills my nostrils
And lulls me to sleep.
Deep. Tranquil. Deep.
Abyss. Bliss. This serene quietude suits me well.
Slowly the intoxicating charm lifts.
I sit up and look in the mirror
By my bedside; I see a new Me.
A Me I neither remember, nor recognize.
My head hits the ceiling
As I try to get up. I feel no pain.
My heart has stopped beating
My soul lies dead on the hospital bed.
I only have my leaden body left
Bereft of everything that is humane.
Yet I need to go on
Walk. Walk an endless walk.
My internal organs have ceased to work.
And yet, I need to go on.
The now limp body rises from its sepulchre
-- That is, the one which once belonged to the one I used to call I--
Now Unnameable.
A solemn, mirthless laughter escapes its cold crooked lips.
And it walks away. A Zombie
With light, airy steps. Unlamenting.
To confront the world. The ludicrous living world.
