When people describe a personal hell, they will talk about being locked-in their own body, with only the senses to accompany oneself. And they aren’t wrong. The first few weeks were miserable.
I wanted to scream, I wanted to talk, I wanted someone to know I was there. But it wasn’t so bad after a while.
I had time to think about everything, the television provided ample stimuli, and watching my loving daughter sacrifice so much for my limp and unresponsive body was comforting.
To be constantly surrounded by so much love was reason enough to survive.
When people describe a personal hell, they will talk of watching loved ones suffer without the capabilities to do anything. And they aren’t wrong.
When those thugs broke into the house and ravaged my daughter, my beautiful daughter, I couldn’t even flinch.
Her cries and screams echoed throughout the room, only to be silenced by a cruel thud of a hammer that cracked her brain open.
When people describe a personal hell, they will rarely talk of the weeks after.
Watching her skin peel, the maggots eating away at her decaying flesh, the stench of rot mixed with her favorite perfume.
A hell I wouldn’t have ever wished on my worst enemy, my only company the quiet beeps of the life-support system.