I toss and turn on my bed. My stomach feels like a trained WBC champion boxer keeps hitting from within. I clench my eyes shut because somehow the pain feels less that way. I have still not found a correct position to lay without feeling like the pain would soon end my life. My roommates make jest and mock, “The almighty Ameh that claims to never be sick, can’t stand up now”. I reserve my comments in spite. They’re not worth my worded combat – not like I can afford it right now. My lower right stomach-part feels like a wall made of cement that has been punched flat to a slice of paper. My heart rate is fine and I wonder why. I sweat profusely and I try to understand why my body still wastes energy in producing sweat when its only concern right now should be saving me from this pain. I sit up. It feels better like this but my back hurts like hell. I walk out, barely being able to move. I vomit all I had last night. It’s 3am now. All my roommates are asleep. “Why can’t I just sleep too and have a temporal rest from all this hurt?” I lie down hoping to find sleep. The subsided pain increases like the price of fuel and my white blood cells are obviously like the president – away to another country. My mind is calm. I usually have a billion things racing through my head, but this pain has crippled my thoughts. I think about all the times I was fine, and wish I could have made better use of those times. My head starts spinning. I feel the urge to vomit again. I gently walk out and empty my stomach of the nothing in it. I feel a tad better. My eyes are shutting now. It must be sleep. I concentrate on enjoying the peace.
Next. I’m awake. I see many people gathered. All of them weeping. I meet someone and ask him what’s happening. He keeps weeping. I try to tap him and my hand goes right through. I remember I’m smart. I am at my funeral. This is funny though it’s not. My mother is gruesomely rolling on the ground weeping. Now it’s not funny. My dad tries hard to not cry, yet I see the tears roll from his eyes. My brothers are all pale. They still do not want to believe I’m dead. Someone I barely recognize talks about how I used to write on dying, or on being sick. “Sickness is not poetic” she says through the tears. I repeat her words. Sickness is not poetic. I feel a force dragging me away.
Next. I’m awake. It was all a dream. My stomach pain is still there, but I’m grateful I’m not dead. Wheew.

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