Hunger

June 30, 2012
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I felt weak in the knees, and tired, so tired. I hungered for food, yet I couldn't eat. My thirst for water to quench my parched throat was unbearable. Yet something compelled me not to eat nor to drink. Every time food touched my lips I felt the urge to throw up what is left of the little food I could eat. Every time water passed through my cracked, dry lips, it would turn foul and I would be forced to spit out the measly sips. Doctors say that it is a rare condition unlike any they have seen before. They don't understand how it could have lay dormant in my body for so long after my birth. I would die. They didn't need to say it but I saw the looks on their faces and I was smart enough to know that my body couldn't survive without the necessary fuels essential to the human body. I don't have much time to live. Not that the time I have left could be called living. There is no theme park or special last day for me. No instead I cannot even walk a few meters without the need of assistance. I don't even get to spend my last hours in the comfort of my own home. Nor do I get to spend them with my family. Instead I am whisked away from my loved ones, to spend my dying hours in a lab. They say they can prevent this from ever happening to anyone else and that I will be a hero for giving my last hours to save others. In truth I had no say in the decision, no, how could I? My throat was so dry that I couldn't manage a word. I feel so frail, like a twig that could be snapped so easily. I was broken, and when my vision started to blur and the beeping of the hospital equipment came to a stop, I welcomed death with open arms. I felt no fear, nor sadness. I was just glad it was over.





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