The only natural light in the room comes from a small, circular window. I often look up at it; cursing the fact I am too low to be able to gaze out at reality. Straining to bathe my senses in but the smallest shred of Outside. It is hopeless however: my body is atrophied and it is too high and too thick to provide anything but a shaft of light. An apology of sorts I suppose.

Usually I exist in a state of bright delireum; my mind thickened, weighing my thoughts down and my senses assaulted by the facade of my walls. The tightness of my blankets, the looming medical apparatus, the piercing, artificial light, the heaviness of my thoughts and that hideous display entombs me. I cannot think. I cannot talk. I cannot move. I am soley an observer to my own misfortune but to observe I must live. Vitality, no matter how dim and cracked, spurrs my heart.

The Outside man has replaced my other doctors: the shadows have taken a liking to him. He is around more and more. Leaning in, mumbling that it shall all be alright. I have nothing to fear. Hope is eternal. Death is kindness to the dead. I am alive however and try to tell him this with my eyes. The desperate stares seem to encourage him however and for my part I cannot stand to gaze in to the certainty of his.

The time has come. He is stroking my hair and whispering in to my ear.
"It will all be alright. I am here to help you. I love you," he announces in his kindly, fatherly tones whilst reaching in to his doctor's bag. He withdraws a small syringe filled with a clear liquid. I stare at it, then him.
"I am alive! Alive!" my eyes scream, desperately fighting the beffudlement of my heavy thoughts.
"That's right, I can cure your pain. Your misery. I have seen the desperation in your eyes, I understand what you want," he replies with a bittersweet smile. The more I fight the more leaden my mind becomes but I redouble my efforts; screaming at every part of me to move if only to save itself. My little finger twitches. It twitches and the pain returns. The pain long absent returns to remind me that I am alive. Elation swells in my breast and I determine to try once more. Again it twitches. Again there is pain. Again I am overjoyed. I return my gaze to him as if to scream triumphantly but he has not noticed. My hands are covered by my blankets. I twitch and twitch but am unable to disturb what is quickly becoming my tomb. He smiles at me once more before piercing the tube of my IV drip with the syring needle.

im to lazy to read that shit.

As his thumb nervously hovers over the plunger I am aware of a faint tapping outside. My mother opens the door and walks in to the scene. I am saved. Her eyes grow wide as she gazes at the doctor, realisation slowly dawning. She screams and lunges at him, he falls over waving his hands and trying to explain.
"You sick bastard!", the first time I have heard my mother's voice in years, "he's my son! How could you? How could you!".
"He's sick and he's never going to get better. I am offering him the only peace he will ever have," he replies, the illness pouring from his mouth. Then, my mother faltered. Then stopped. Horror, blackest horror and betrayal, fills my mind with its bile. My mind is tarred shut. He stands and walks to the corner of the room, she follows and they murmur quietly. I strain to hear, desperate to know my fate but I can discern nothing but the occasional sorrowful glance back to me. When they have finished she approaches me, sitting on my bed she strokes my face and looks in to my eyes. I pour my heart, my soul... my very life in to my gaze. I look at her. She at me. Then, with a genuine expression of love, she turns to him and nods.
My life is forfeit. He returns to the syringe and pushes down. My deliruem intensifies, my ears are filled with the murmuring of the people on that dream street. I scan the room from them, to the detestful walls and finally to the window. As I feel my vision fading I grasp at it mentally; my one solace. My mother and the doctor lean over, blocking it from view. I see the illness in their eyes.

Finished.

>>871759

Don't be an arse. If you can't be bothered to read it don't announce that fact and get back to looking at all the pretty pictures.

One of the best things I have had the pleasure to read, actually!

>>871849

Wow, thank you. Glad you enjoyed it.

Haha, very nice. My only problem is that while reading it I thought to myself : "How does he save himself? He can't move or anything but since I'm reading this autobiography he must have lived! How did he escape?"
Then the mom came in and I thought "what a terrible twist, so overused," and I kept reading anyway only to realise... wtf?

How did this patient write this story?

>>871767
that was great, a really bizarre perspective always makes a story good.

>>872001

Well as the patient was totally paralysed and unable to communicate in any way it cannot be his writings. More a snapshot in to his dying thoughts, the retrospective we are forced to enjoy just before death claims us.

Yes I think that twist is overused also; which made it perfect to convey the utter sense of helplessness when even his mother fails to help him.

>>872001
It doesn't have to be written by anyone. That's the cool thing about writing, you can do whatever the fuck you want. Look at them as thoughts that you are reading.

>>872018

Yes I thought it was interesting; how better to create a sense of helplessness than by describing the story of a paralytic?

I liked it

I loved it. Best thing I've read in a little while. Your writing is exquisite, OP.

>>871767
Wow. Just wow. That was incredibly well written! I disagree with the message, generally, but this was a damn good read. Are you a professional writer? Have you tried submitting some work to an anthology? You're more than good enough to get published.

>>872330
Thank you; I'm flattered. In answer to your question too young to become a proffessional writer (still in education) but I hope to at some point in my life. Your anthology idea interests me however; I shall have to consider it.

>>872292

I'm glad to know you like it.

>>872456
You're not too young to be published. There is no age limit. I think Stephen King finished his first book at 16. Just go to your nearest library, and look for a book that lists various publishers and agents. You'll need to get an agent first, because most publishers will only talk to agents. So print out copies of your work as per specifications listed in the book, and arrange to meet with the agents. Eventually, you'll get one. Then, you get to look for publishers in basically the same way.

Being published is pretty easy, as long as you're persistent.

You got some talent kid... you should not give up writing. And remember, the only thing to writing is having an idea and the process of perfecting it.

Good read OP.

Very good read. I liked it. Keep up the good work.

>>872477

You have a point; it's more the full-time education that gets in the way. Still I shall consider what you have to say and if I do manage it I'll be sure to accredit X in my first novel.

>>872488

Oh I have no intention of giving up writing; it's moving it from a hobby to a proffession that poses the quandary.

Would it be okay if I posted this on a site I admin? I'll give you full credentials and everything if you want, but it's just too good a story to 404 on /x/.

>>872688

Be my guest. Credit me as... Alistair.

Cool. Thanks buddy. The page should be up in a little bit. The link is http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-library. It's in the Creepypasta section. If you write some more, tell me about it, and I'll put it up too. I'm the Admin Kain Pathos Crow.