Slowly I dragged myself to the telephone and pulled it from the stand. I remember nothing else until they brought me here.
It's been eight days—eight days away from death, yet I'm closer to it now than ever before. And I can't think of it. The fear has come crashing through and I can't think.
This thing, this body is too far gone. I won't be able to make it move. I'll just feel it getting away—little by little—ripping apart cell by cell, and then everywhere all at once.
I can feel it now. But in that great silence, I could almost hear the tearing—yet there was no sound.
The doctors have given up all hope. I can see it in their faces. I could hear them talking among themselves when they brought me in. They had to give it a name. There's a certain safety in a name, you know.
I would have told them, but I was afraid they'd laugh. The nurses would laugh and say to each other, "Have you heard what the one in 408 wanted in his case history?"
I couldn't stand the laughter now.