I can’t look him in the eye. I can’t. It’s too painful. The man is a shadow of his former self. Tied down, hooked up to machines that poke and prod him everywhere, showing readings on every important thing his body does.
He is Gaunt.
Filled with fear and pain.
He twitches in time with some internal clock that beats an odd rhythm, and every once in a while the fear and pain completely take him. Eyes wild with terror, his emaciated form twists wildly under thin blankets that seem incapable of keeping out even meager amounts of cold, fingers like talons grasp for a hold on anything, anything to push him away from the pain, from the abject fear.
He mouths words, but is incapable of speech. Most of the words he mouths are incomprehensible, but a few get through. “help me” “Help Me” “HELP ME!” His eyes burn with soul crushing agony. His mouth becomes an inarticulate, silent scream. My ears hear nothing from him, but my mind, knowing that ears lie, hears the scream. The earth shakes with the thunder of his rage and pain and pounds incessantly in my skull. And he repeats the process, only the next one is stronger, more abject, more thunderous.
He sees, but does not comprehend, and his one reaction is one of primal fear.
And then just as suddenly as the fit comes, it goes. He is again resting.
Machines beep to themselves in the corner next to the bed. His eyes half opened, half closed, showing no signs of life whatsoever. If i didn’t see the slight movement of the sheets, and see the machine tell me he had a pulse, I’d think I was looking at a corpse.
And then a startled sounding breath. Movement. His head moves slightly, but remains, as always, leaning to his left. Tongue hanging out ever so slightly, with a tube stuck down his throat to help him breathe.
The doctors say it helps him breathe, but I hear in the same breathe that he breathes on his own. Makes me wonder after the sanity of people who can say such things. Either he is breathing and needs no help, or he is really having a bad time, and needs a machine to do it for him. Right?
No human deserves that pain. None. But it exists, it is as real as darkness, as real as the night.
It had better be worth it. He better make it.
Pic of the day: The Flagellation of our Lord Jesus Christ (1880), William- Adolphe Borguereau
That’s it from here, America. G’night.