AN: I'm posting this in an attempt to get my self writing it again

My life has been doomed from the start. Born on April the 1st, my life has only brought misery. To be specific, misery to me. The dreaded birthday must have been a warning for what is to come in this excruciating life.

Here I am, dropping pills down my dry, sore throat like there's no tomorrow. Hoping that tomorrow will never come.

Many say that suicide is for weak minded folk. I would have to disagree. Sometimes people just lose their meaning in life. Pain is far reaching, deep and painful. They say it's a coward's way out, but they're wrong. Agonisingly wrong, I've looked back at my life and saw what it is now. It's meaningless, I have no hope, only pain. Do you know how much strength it took to decide that this pain had to stop? I've been delaying this event for God knows how long, hoping one day things will be colourful, vivid and pain free.

It's a humans prerogative to live. Natural instinct tells me to live, but it's a humans prerogative to die. No matter what the law says. I own me, I can do what I want with me.

As you can probably guess, nothing in my life ever turns out right. Instead of my hopeful, peaceful-ish drop out of the world of the living, God or whomever has cursed me.

Somehow a neighbour noticed my lack of movement from my home. They decided to investigate my bleak generic flat. Using the metal weighted breaching tool, they broke down my locked door, taking it completely off the hinges, they find me passed out on the floor foaming at the mouth.

An ambulance was immediately at the scene. The ambulances whirring in the background drained out all other noise, as I lay on the cold hard floor, disappointed that I was still here in this world. My vision faded out.

My failed attempt left me with a life I would even consider worse than what I was already living. Isolated, trapped, 'locked in', until the days on my death clock finally run out.

__________________________

"Locked-in Syndrome: Usually resulting from a stroke that damages part of the brain stem, in which the body and most of the facial muscles are paralysed, but consciousness remains and the ability to perform certain eye movements is preserved." That's what my doctor told me, his dead tone conveying a death sentence. I looked at the wrinkles on his face reaching from the corner of his lips to his upper cheek. An etched smile line. Knowing he would probably never understand my thoughts. I began screening him out.

Hearing the keyword "future", I began to listen in again. Only to be further disappointed to then find out I have no chance of recovery. At that moment I realised the trivialities of my life, before and now and what is to come.

To tell me about how I can still get some decent quality of life, 'Decent' being my own words, is ludicrous!

Seriously, anyone saying 'good' is just lying to themselves and to me. I would know, I have it. Too many times have I suffered the woes of false hope. Sure I have my eyes; but any other function is left for the nurses to take care of. Which wouldn't be too bad if I were actually able to communicate my needs.

For example I may want to say 'Nurse I'm about to defecate in the hospital gown.' Then in actuality I'm not even able to shit for myself. This is completely debilitating. On a daily routine a nurse has to circle her finger around my arsehole! Massaging it to help me remove my dark stool. It doesn't matter that I can't feel it. I might as well be shitting myself.

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You would think that life wouldn't be too bad considering my uneventful existence. No menial job to do. No taxes to pay. No annoying neighbours who don't know how to fuck off. Life doesn't sound too bad. Other than the fact that my body is completely paralysed. Life should be great in comparison.

Even accounting for my emotional stability (suicide watch), as a person you begin feeling like an old abandoned dog who's been kicked out and abused. They hate the fact that you're ill. The ill where you start to become scruffy and distasteful. They dread the fact that they have to take care of you.

I have become a menial task. A waste of space, well more of waste of space than I already was.

The worst part in this existence is the silence. Eyes can only go so far. Yes, they do have a board with every letter to slowly spell out your words, but can you imagine the 'amazing' conversations you can have. Invigorating. My first attempt to use it was to just vent my anger at the nurses.

'f'

'u'

'c'

'k'

'y'

'o'

'u'

They didn't look to pleased. By the time I was at 'c' they could see where it was going and began to stare at me in distaste.

__________________________

My room is stark. Plain as a white board. The room screams disgust. Plaster peels off the walls in cracks of corners. My only clue to the outside world, is my small oval-ish window and the dilapidated entrance way. Furnished with one chair, as simple as the room. It might as well have been stolen from someone's 5x5 concrete garden.

I stare at a fixed position on the wall; The place where originally there was a TV, but as my luck goes it's broken and isn't likely to be fixed or replaced till I actually start to lose my mind to insanity.

It goes without saying that I was attempting to burn a hole through the wall. Anything to break me out of the nonexistent existence.

Any change to this room, would be good change.

Except darkness. Everyone must have been originally been scared of the dark. There's just something natural about it. Who knows what goes bump in the night?

Night is bleak. Night is the worst time in the hospital; eerie silence. Not even a shadow of a person is about. No wandering nurses. An oddity in a place of 'health'. Just silence. Imagine a scene in a horror film just before a jump scare. The tension rises. A chorus violins rises up. Higher and higher. Faster and faster. The stale air becomes hot and thick, but also strangely cold. Along your back and neck, a tingling. A shiver runs up from the base of your spine, crawling to the edge of your neck. Silence. Your heart has reached its peak of drumming. A cold breath upon your neck…

Your heart almost stops.

Nothing ever comes of it. I don't feel a thing. My mind senses this boding, but my body no longer reacts. The only sign that it even took place is my sweat drenched back that can't be felt. Slowly I fall into my restless sleep.

Dreams have been my salvation but always a nightmare.