The only crazy thing to happen to me was my death. It was so prolonged and
complicated. It almost feels designed; like something out of a horror movie,
written for ultimate suspense. Convoluted might be the word I would
use for it. I kept getting this close to being killed by something, only to
survive it, and make my way to the next danger, which also didn’t kill me.
Obviously, it happened eventually, or you wouldn’t be receiving my story, so
here it is. I woke up to the sound of my neighbor banging on my apartment
door. I groaned, but I didn’t get up, because I couldn’t. I wasn’t
paralyzed, but it felt like there was a silky web holding me against the
bed. I heard a crash as he broke in, came into my room, and lifted me out.
There had been a gas leak throughout the entire complex, and it evidently
hit me worst. I survived, and breathed in the oxygen that the firefighter
gave me. Everything was fine, and I was feeling livelier—albeit with a
headache the likes of which I didn’t know was possible—when my oxygen tank
exploded. I don’t know if someone shot it with a gun, or if the valve was
turned wrong, or what the hell happened. All I know is I woke up feeling
worse than ever, on the ground, covered in debris. I was still alive,
though...for the moment. The ambulance, not so much. That thing was wrecked,
so they gave me a new one, and tried to take me to a hospital, but wouldn’t
you know it, that one wrecked too! We had just gotten through a huge winter
storm, and most of the ice had melted, but there was just enough on the
on-ramp to the highway to send us flying over the edge, down the grass verge
by the underpass. I opened my eyes just as a semi-truck was barreling
towards us, unable to stop either, for whatever reason; maybe another patch
of ice. After that, someone pulled me out.
I was drifting in and out of consciousness, but I was alert enough to
recognize that I was just riding in the backseat of some random person’s
car. I asked the driver if he was taking me to the hospital, but he said
that wasn’t what I needed. At last, he stopped. So I tried to escape, but he
was too strong, and I was too hurt. He carried me up some steps, and onto a
rooftop. He didn’t even explain what he had against me. He just
unceremoniously dropped me over the edge, like it was the only logical thing
to do. I don’t even know if he expected me to crash onto the pavement, or if
he knew that a garbage truck was passing underneath at the right time. I
suspect he wanted the truck to run me over, but didn’t time it right. I was
even more hurt now, but still ticking. I tried to call out for the
garbageman to stop, but there was all this noise, and I wasn’t confident
anything was coming out of my mouth. The truck stopped, and trash fell on my
head, including a bucket of knives. I don’t know why they were throwing them
out. They were good enough to cut me a thousand times. After that, the
compactor began to run, threatening to crush me, but something went wrong
with the hydraulics, and it halted. The garbageman found me when he came
back to investigate, and called for a third ambulance. On the way, it almost
got in another accident, at least that’s what it felt like from the back. I
finally made it to the hospital where I received a severe overdose of pain
medication following surgery, apparently due to human error. But that isn’t
what killed me either. No, throughout all of this, my wounds weren’t
properly treated for a long time, and I found out too late that I contracted
a nasty bacterial infection—likely from something in the garbage—which
finally did me in two months later.
