For the past few days my stomach has been afflicted with the most grotesque and painful feeling, a sickness so black and vile and cruel it is like a plague infecting all the deepest parts of me, causing my once healthy body to decay.

Yesterday I spent the day in bed. I did not moan, though I wished so dearly to: as a sponge to the bad in the world, I am forced to absorb and absorb and absorb, but never to release my own suffering. I will continue to suck in the wet of sadness until my dying day, when at last, saturated and soaking, my body will give in to a lifetime of hurt. And what thanks will I get for it? Who will reflect and think about what I underwent to ensure the survival of everyone around me? No one, I say! This is my curse.

Surprisingly, my father has paid me multiple visits since I was bedridden, giving me pills to cure the hurt. I swear he gave me fifteen or twenty yesterday alone, between periods of drifting sleep, though he merely tells me I am delirious and offers me more white, inch-long tablets, two words printed on the sides; I am unsure of what they say.

Once, he walked off muttering - at least, I think he did. Something about horse tranquilisers. I must've misheard though; the pills he gave me made me awfully, awfully sleepy.

-Misunderstood
(MNA August 11th 2008)