The luminosity of the florescent lights set my irises ablaze. My pupils almost disappeared into the sea of white, devoured by the sclera. Blinking allows me to acclimatize to the light while coating my cornea with lachrymal fluid. But this fluid isnít cleansing my eyes; my memories are running out of me in these tears. My sadness, my loneliness is trickling through the pores in my meibomian glands in my eyelids and mixing with the watery substance flowing over my cornea from my lachrymal gland and amalgamating with mucous from my conjunctiva. A liquid fusion of all my pain and sorrow lost forever among the beads of water still clinging to my naked body.

The lack of oxygen caused my blood to thicken into a dense syrup. My chest was caving in. My heartbeat slowed to a crawl. The world spun around me and I reached out to stop it, but only collapsed.

As the spinning slowed enough to where I could focus, I noticed a plate with a stale slice of wheat bread, a glass of water and two small white capsules.

The capsules were 2mg Heparin, used to dissolve blood clots of thin blood during heart attacks, or in my case, to suppress chest pain from Ischaemia, a lack of oxygen to the cerebrum.

I swallowed the two capsules together and washed them down with the water. I tried my best to savor the diminutive taste of the insipid bread that I found laid before me just often enough for me to stay alive. I could count all my ribs and would sometimes run my fingers up and down them to feel where they were broken and where they had healed, mangled and twisted and jutting to the surface. All my pain and suffering inscribed in brail on my skin.