Dying On My Own Terms

Gilles

ned into a dull ache. It was familiar. I knew this feeling. It was one of the many souvenirs Serenity Heights had given me. I gently touched the spot, fe

e door to the guest room opened. Dozier. Again. He seemed to materi

asn't supposed to be here. He usually left early for

my back, his eyes narrowing. "What

he spot. "Nothing," I mumbled, trying to s

bric. A dark, damp stain was blooming on the faded cotton, a stark crims

evoid of its usual impatience. "Let me se

nds, I slowly, reluctantly, lifted the hem of the t-shirt.

red and swollen, weeping a yellowish fluid. It was ugly. A testament to the days I had spent strapped down to a metal bed frame, the

He reached out, his fingers hovering over the wound, not q

devoid of emotion. "From Serenity Hei

lank expression, then back to the wound. He visibly swallow

ing the weather. "The metal bed frame was rough. They left you there for d

g, now gently touched the inflamed skin. A jolt, sharp and unwelcome, shot

e asked, his voic

y feeling. "Pain is just a signal," I said, reciting the mantra t

nto place in his arrogant, privileged mind. He had thought he was sending me to a place that would "fix" me, that would gently gui

nts were slow, deliberate, as if he were underwater. He poured antiseptic onto a cotton ball,

My eyes were focused on a chip in the paint on the wall. I felt nothing but a dull, distan

e just stared at the bandage, then at my back, then at my face, searching for something, a

think he understood. The truth of Serenity Heights, the reality