The Battle of 10th September

There is a hell hidden within the sinews of the real world
comprised purely of physical suffering.
‘The greater the pleasure, the greater the pain’
Not sure how much merit I can give this statement.
The rise and fall of relief is merely a prologue for the main event.
The grueling torment, stretching seconds into minutes, minutes into hours.
An eternity of violent distress in one night.
Sometimes pain is all there is.
 
Unable to recall the start, the skirmish was already underway.
A quiet room, stabbed eerily with groans and wails
reshaping the ambiance to near uncomfortable levels.
‘Doing nothing’ was the name of the game.
Breeze on my skin, a rain of needles.
Cold air, a mode of torture.
Movement, a prelude to fracture.
Thought, sheer disaster.
 
Blazing fever and unrelenting pain; Haven’t met a more terrifying duo before.
Every injection seemed to draw out more anguish.
Liquid tolerance rushing through my veins, tearing through them.
Pain sensitivity escalates to the point where existence itself is pain.
Shivers, as deep as marrow, as vulnerable as first love, at the mere thought of the next shot, rip through me.
And sleep, a luxury of the fortunate, appears to be frighteningly out of reach.
With no rest to recover, no bell between rounds,
every breath feels like contest to survive.
When touching my arm is the same as breaking it,
turning in bed seems worthy of high praise.
Getting up to quench my thirst is no different than shaking hands with death.
The static alone is enough to shred my ear drums now.
 
12? 15? 18 hours?
How long has it been?
When did this begin?
My eyes roll back down and scan the room.
Still, quiet, empty.
It’s morning, I’m pouring sweat.
Memories of the torment still fresh in my flesh.
Breathing freely, at last, yet uncertain if I’m allowed a sigh of relief.
The battle might be over but the war isn’t done with me yet.