Faces gleam in empty windowpanes

Pressed against the glass,

Glued, judging, watching as they invaded the domain

Their domain.

The hospital.

Shivers coursed down the visitor’s spine,

The sweat traversed their brow

And they were afraid.

They were afraid of the eyes –

How they followed him down the white hallways,

How they examined his every move,

How they jeered and laughed at his sickly complexion

His illness

His depression.

A man in a white coat and glasses led him to the door.

“To run some tests” they said

“To have an x-ray” they said

“Harmless” they lied.

His pulse began to quicken, his breath stopped in his throat.

They probably want to examine my brain

They’re going to prescribe medicine

Probably pills that steal your thoughts as you sleep.

He stepped back. He would not go towards his death.

The surgeon faced him, face contorted in awful, snarling madness.

He screamed.

He struggled as thousands grabbed him, pushing him towards the end.

He didn’t want to go

He couldn’t go

He wouldn’t let them have his thoughts.





A needle invaded his veins, crawled through his blood, flooded him with darkness…

He collapsed.

He felt himself dying. 



It's all an illusion, which is the sad part. 

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