I laid belly-up on the coarse sheets, slipping in and out of an anxious sleep. They didn't think I could hear them, but I could. How could I not, when they were always so obnoxiously loud?
They treated me differently, after the accident. It was the worst the town had ever been through. Except that the town didn't go through the excruciating pain, the town didn't hear the CRACK of their own bones breaking, the town didn't smell the burned rubber, and the town didn't feel their skin scraping the cold, stony asphalt. I went through all that.
Now they were going to take my life away. The silent unanimous vote to take away the life support was as painful for them as it was for me, I could see.
The appointed time was 4 o'clock. Two more hours of tense wait. Two hours to live. Two hours left of the monotonous sounds of wheelchairs squeaking down hallways, nurses chatting at the station, but most importantly, two more hours of hearing my own thoughts, my own ragged breath.
One more hour remaining. One fidgety hour of wait. One hour remaining to live. One hour remaining of the horrid smells of the hospital food, the coppery tinge of blood, but most prominent, one hour remaining of my own soft scent.
Only a moment now, a moment to live.
One moment now, and I'm slipping,
slipping
away.