Slow

I’ve tasted death several times, but this right here was something different. It wasn’t cleaning up my wounds and watching them slowly heal over time.

This was watching my sister worried at the end of the hospital hallway, it was looking at my mums face that was a bit confused and at my father’s ignorance, for as he wasn’t present, he was in the other town, minding his own business.

It felt like the lack of having a father in the moment of need but struggling to know if I need him with me right now or not.

He was a busy man, with his own life and he appeared once in a while, just to show that he was concerned and would threaten me if things were not going his way.

He is the kind of person that would want me to mention my pain and sorrow to him, only for him to gather enough information to convince me on his point of view.

I feel sorry for my friends, of whom some are aware of what is going on and others who do not know what is happening to me or what has happened.

They are unaware of the fact that I am sitting in the hospital, in my sister’s lap, with a dizzy mind and all this overdosing that I did.

I stop writing.

I look back up to her and tell her that it isn’t helping me. She puts her phone away and tells me to rest, and so I do. I fall asleep for quite a while until I feel that I need to go to the washroom.

As I go there and close the door, my legs couldn’t carry me anymore and I fall down to the ground.

This… is a slow death.

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