• I lie in the bed, completely motionless except for the slow and labored rising of my chest. Each breath resisting it's journey into my chest. Stinging the walls of my lungs and clogging my throat. A heavy feeling rises from my chest and becomes an itch in my throat. My body rushes to expel what it perceives to be there. The air shoots from my mouth like a bullet. It tears at my chest and the back of my mouth. So much pain from one little cough. I try to move my arm. The muscles grate against my flesh and bone. I stop trying. My mind feels trapped. The worthless body that holds it lying and hurting. I look at the white sheets of my bed. Some kind nurse was thoughtful enough to raise the head of my bed. I can now observe more than the ceiling of my cramped room. It's fairly sparse. A few chairs for visitors I will never get. A cross on the wall depicting a deity I no longer believe in. A bed side table with a cup of stagnant water and an off white telephone. My mouth is dry. I wish my body could reach the water. Maybe if I could call a nurse. But I don't want to bother them for something so trivial. I can deal with it. My heart pounds slowly in my chest. I feel every beat. Slow. Steady. I know that the moment the disease reaches it and it stops it's slow, steady ticking, I will be no more. I have accepted this. I am tired of walls covered in ugly patterns and empty chairs that remind me of how alone I am. I am ready. I am ready for the disease to take over.