Painine

Filed in Gather Writing Essential by on January 24, 2012 0 Comments

Dear Planet Earth,

Pain. Blinding, striking, unrelenting pain. It consumes me, taunts me without words, chews on me without teeth.

I’ve heard of pain like this. I’ve heard my grandfather complain of such a feeling in his hands. It followed him all the way into death, forming an image in my mind of an unearthly malady beyond simple arthritis. I feel like that old man. I feel like ten old men.

They gave me drugs — morphine or codeine or some other “ine” — the first few days here at the hospital, but then the supplies became scarce and they decided a kid like me — practically a man — with a single bullet wound didn’t need that much painkiller. So, now I’m the painkiller. And I’m losing.

They left me with 50 cc of painine and the possibility of never walking again. I sound bitter, like an old man, but I don’t know how else to feel. I was shot in the leg by a mole man. I was shot in the leg by a mole man and I can’t think of anything but the tingling, tormenting fire in every inch of my body.

 

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