September Rain
Page 55
by A.R. Rivera
59
-Angel
I don't know how long I've been in the infirmary and won't ask. I've accepted that I'm a useless good-for-nothing and stopped trying.
I do whatever they tell me.
It's hopeless.
Useless.
I screw up everything.
Every. Time.
So, when they tell me to eat, I eat. Maybe I'll get lucky and choke.
They tell me to sleep, I sleep. To pass time.
They want me to piss, I piss.
I take their zombie medications and hope for an incompetent nurse and an overdose.
I wish they would tell me to die.