Diary of the Modern Man

My body aches as I sit. The chronic pain of being stationary on concrete is one that permeates my existence. I feel the coarse scratch of brittle fragments during every movement. I dream of soft surfaces. The cure is with me, but I wait until I can’t bare the pain any longer. I seem to be incapable of anything but maximizing its use. Thankfully, my pain melts away as it rushes through my veins. It comforts me physically and mentally. I can no longer feel the pain of my existence. I’m barely aware of my surroundings let alone my past.

I slump over as the needle falls to the ground. Zombielike, I wait. Wait for time. The grains of sand falling...drip...drip...the bottom fills as the top depletes. Those newly falling are ghostly wisps, flowing as a feather on air, barely noticeable except for a slight tickle. They land on top of a burnt, scarred, ugly mound of past drops that terrorize me. The anticipation of more is why I transform them. God knows how many drops are left. I care not. The fewer the better.

The pain slowly returns as I start to wake from my stupor. I remember the doctor fondly. You might assume I despise him. I don’t. Without him I wouldn’t have the cure. Of course, I no longer get it from him. I’ve upgraded, but I thank him for my respite after every flight. As the pain becomes stronger, I reach down to rub my leg as I remember the original reason the doctor gave me my cure. The ghost of what once was has long faded, but whenever I wake, I have a brief moment where I can feel it. I long for it. I cry for it. I wish my entire body was taken. Taken when it happened.

I was lying there face down in that dirty, sandy hole that was once a home in a desert, shielding myself from the barrage of enemy fire raining upon me with the body of someone I’d known but who no longer existed. His lifeless body, limp. Blood and fluid spray. The sound of fire. The smell of death. The claustrophobia of hell on earth. The torture of fear. Ducking below the window I was safe from direct fire. The plaster and flesh were enough to stop everything else, or so I thought. There were others behind me racing to position. I look over my shoulder to see my brothers.

In the cacophony of explosions, I hear but one. The roar of a lion. Then the hiss of a snake. Then the shriek of an eagle. Then the thunder of a volcano. Then they were gone. Only fragments of humans remained. I could no longer tell where my body began or ended. I remember almost nothing of the chaos that ensued, or maybe I just choose to forget. The next thing I knew was the sound of friendly voices, the cushion of a bed, and the missing of a limb.

I am now fully awake. Recounting the horror makes the pain unbearable. I need to cure myself. I load up my cure. I puncture myself with the needle. The pain of the pinch is euphoria as my body knows what comes next. The rush is intense. The cure is working better than ever. My pain dissolves completely. I no longer feel the deformity and disease of my body. I no longer feel the spiral of insanity that is my mind. I finally feel the freedom I was looking for. The ghostly drops become fainter as I drift. God knows how many drops are left. I care not. You care not. They, especially, care not. The darkness approaches. I will not be missed. I cease to exist.