Time To Switch Off.

I wonder what the last thoughts are of someone that is about to be taken off life support.


1. One Second.

I can’t see them, but I know they’re there. The muffled voices are blurring away. I sense my father, standing in the corner, looking at my body, supported by a pumping machine on the left of me. My sister is wailing into her fiancee’s arms, and though she is at arms length away from me, her cry is in a far off land.  The time is now. I have to go.

I hear each stroke the pen marking makes as my mother signs the agreement. She is strong. She is the only one brave enough to see this is good for me. I am so close to peace…serenity.

I cannot move. I don’t try to move, and I daren’t to open my eyes. I don’t want to see the pain I am causing, I want to let their memories of me fade as time passes by. If I open them now, they’ll want me to be strong, and they’ll call me a fighter. The worst part is that I’ll believe them. I’m keeping my memory closed off to new ones, and letting my body go. They don’t see it now, not through their blurred visions blinded by the salty tears that fall with every blink. But I am strong. I am finally doing something for me, and it feels right. So I won’t move a muscle. I won’t bear them with the burden that they could have saved me, because it’s time. It’s time for me to-

A long beep flows from my right ear to my left. It is fading away as the sound of my softly beating pulse blankets the sound.

One second.

One second.


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