A short piece I wrote for a flash-fiction challenge a couple of years ago - but still pertinent to this particular date. I hope it still provokes thought and reflection.
Despite the pain I’m in it’s strange, but I can feel the cold. Like when you sweat and feel that coolness on your skin as it evaporates.
I can feel that, now. But it’s not sweat. It’s blood.
There are so many puncture wounds and rips in my flesh that at times I can’t really tell exactly where the pain is coming from.
My muscles ache. I want to lie down and rest but they won’t let me. Just when I think they’ve finished they start all over again. But I know this is just the beginning.
What a difference a week makes. A few days ago I was in a very different place. Not geographically. In fact, I was just a few hundred yards from this building. But it was a world away from the present reality.
That was when people wanted to be with me. I had some very good friends, but this – this has driven most of them away. The fear of this happening to them has made them run.
It’s dark. There are still a few hours to go before daylight. More time to rip more flesh.
It could have been so different. But this is all part of the plan. I can’t change it. I can't back out now. I don’t want to, even with all this pain and terror. It is…..necessary.
It’s tempting knowing that I could clap my hands and have done with it. If it was just me, perhaps I would. But it isn’t just me. And so much depends on carrying this through, right to the bitter end.
I can hear them coming. What’s already gone is nothing to what’s coming up, I know that. But I have to look beyond it.
The pain will pass.
They only see the here and now. But I know the bigger picture. They think this will finish it. How wrong can they be.
But Sunday’s coming