I’ve never liked the way things worked here. Everyone was so...perfect; Nothing more,nothing less. Growing up, I was never allowed to settle for anything less than that. Perfection, or failure, that was the rule. There were no exceptions. You were either praised or shunned. Just like a clock; accurate, or inaccurate. Day in, day out, hands reaching each other, round and round. Everything is so stagnant and by the book, I couldn't’ take it! I feared of having a panic attack, because God! I hated hospitals. It brings back the worst memories from my past. And the whole perfect thing, I was never anywhere close. Those who were reckoned “perfect,” left this place with smiles on their faces, ready to continue their perfectly healthy lives. The rest, like me, were left behind with vitiate bodies lying on blue clothed beds in rooms that smelled of bleach.

It was like all the major events in my life occurred in a hospital. My birth, my sister’s birth, my mom’s death, and it was this very hospital in which I had been diagnosed. A single tear rolled down my cold cheek. I had no one. No one to share my pain and sorrow with; no one to laugh with; no one at all.

Just a few years ago, the last person I had left me. I still remember the door slamming shut, not for the first time, but sadly for the last. I remembered sitting on my floor thinking maybe this isn’t over, maybe this is just like other times, maybe she’d walk back in the way she walked out . But I guess sometimes, things just aren’t going to go the way we wish for them to.

I hated my job, no one at work really liked me anyways. Actually, no one liked me at all. I made people mad, I said things that hurt them. Some called me full of myself, others deemed me a sociopath. It never bothered me too much. But after my sister walked out on me, I couldn’t stand the person I saw in the mirror. I slowly stopped leaving my house. I was in such isolation, I had forgotten what my own voice sounded like. I drank away the majority of my days, and stayed in bed for the most part.

Then one july afternoon, I felt a tug in my stomach. I was standing beside my refrigerator, A whisky bottle in my hand. A sharp pain pierced through my insides, and twisted itself around my chest. I let out a twinging yell, and stumbled backwards grabbing my gut. The bottle slipped from my fingers, and fell towards the ground. I fell against the wall, just as the bottle made and impact, the glass shattering against the white tiles, the sweet and austere brown liquid flounced across the smooth flooring. A wet cough bounced out of my mouth, burning the insides of my throat. Another sharp pain slithered through my stomach, making me scream again. I through my head up at the ceiling, my eyes wide and wet with tears. I looked around and spotted my phone on the kitchen counter. I had to reach it but there was so much broken glass on the floor. I shook my head, the pain inside me was much worse than what any glass would feel like in my skin.

I pushed myself forward, panting, and in terrible agony. I hesitated before putting my hand down onto the broken glass and crawling forward towards the phone. The broken glass lacerated into my skin, the whisky making in sting more than it already did. I wanted to stop, but the longer I would sit there, the more the pain would grow. So I pushed myself once more, my one hand still grasping my middle and the other one helping me push my body forward across the floor. When I finally reached the counter, the feeling was indeed unbearable. I reached up with my trembling, bleeding and wounded hand, and grabbed my phone. My fingers were unsteady as I dialed the emergency phone number.

“911, what’s your emergency”

“HELP ME!” I screamed into the phone. My body ached so much, all I could do was scream. From that day on, This hospital was my abode. The pain came and went; along with it the doctors. They continued to pump oddly named chemicals they asserted were for my best into my body. To this day, I just continue to hate myself a little more, hate this life, hate this existence. I had no one. I had nothing to live for. Today I felt especially useless. I was going to die anyways, but these doctors keep trying to convince me that life was never pointless. But I truly felt that anything would be better than lying here, slowly feeling the pain of self loathing, and intense loneliness. Just thinking of all the people of disappointed, my sister whom I failed to be good role model to, my parents whom I’d failed by being so imperfect, and basically every other human I’d ever interacted with.

So when the pain struck again, this time worse than ever, I didn’t fight back. I didn’t feel the need to. What was fighting going to do anyways. I layed back and closed my eyes. I didn’t scream. I didn’t call for anyone. I felt the pain burst inside me, like a dam being defeated by a river. It gyrated like a ribbon around the end of a braid and washed through my fragile body. My insides stung with such an intensity, but I still pressed my lips tightly together, refusing to make a sound. I could feel tears starting to well up in my eyes, and flow down my face making my colourless cheeks sting. My vision was blurred by the immense amount of tears, but I still managed to turn my head to face the door out of my hospital room. Above it hung an old French decimal clock, the second hand ticking away. I managed to read the time as 9:56. That was the moment I realized that time was precious, but it meant nothing when you have no one to spend it with. I smiled through the pain, and closed my eyes to think of my mother waiting for me on the other side. I always knew she would be the last thought I would ever have.

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