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Gaven Fehrer, 06 Nov '14

        It’s like a ball gag in your mouth. Your body so tied up you can’t even try to struggle. Forget about feeling, that’s gone too. This is the bondage no masochist would sign up for. Your eyes strain to open but, sure enough, they too have been held down. At least they won’t dry out like your skin. You can’t take a breath but they haven’t let you die. Those immovable limbs are losing muscle mass and that’s just unacceptable. To keep you in shape, or close enough, they run shock treatments daily. Your back is arching, as much as they had hoped to keep it straight. The defiance is all too well noted. They poke you with sharp things of various gauges and vocations, stealing vital fluids. It’s the kind of sadism that generally only sees play from serial killers and Gods.
        The doctor stands by the life support but you don’t know. He’s been seeing you twice a week for the past year; checking charts of a living corpse. He says, “Are you sure?” and your husband mumbles. You don’t feel the life support systems being stopped one at a time. You stop wasting space in critical care and descend to the morgue; that is your birthright. At least it was a natural death.
        They dig out your organs to see what you have left to offer. The heart, liver, kidneys, and lungs won’t do. Shot from the liquor and time in lower class neighborhoods. Your pancreas can go to a politician four hours away if the life flight can hurry the fuck up and fuel. You’d never have voted for this guy. Even if the chopper doesn’t make it you’re only killing a politician. Things could be worse, you could save him.