I exist as a Russian doll of pain. A sandwich of anguish with a lager on the side.
If only I hadn’t chanced it and drove back from the pub.
There are seven vertebrae in the neck. All shattered on impact, piercing my spinal cord and leaving me here, a tube down my throat forcing “life” upon me.
If I could rip it out I could. I can’t get used to this life even though I know every little bit of it. I’ve been here long enough. I try to move my hand for the millionth time.
The only thing I can do is to stare at the ceiling and notice new patterns in the tiling. Combined with the narcotics they jump out at me screaming “YOU EXIST! YOU EXIST!”.
“Oh Lord”, I moan, “take me!”