The lines we cross

Introduction(unfinished)

           In the grand brutality of it all, it would be as if nothing had ever happened. What is your wealth to a dying man? What is your immense potential without grand execution? This was never about execution, it wasn't even about inhumanity, This was about you and I. At some point, the lines I had crossed, or the depths I had gone to, became irrelevant. I guess you could call it a lesson, I'm sure that's what some thought, those who didn't believe me to be a complete monster. I didn't see a point in telling my story, my bitten, brittle tongue would not be of concern much longer.

       If you're reading this, it's too late.

           Those dreaded cold and humid mornings almost took me out sophomore year. I had thought the pain only lingered with the snow and frostbite of December, when the ice thawed and the air was no longer beating me purple and red, I had realized it was never subjective, it would always be this way. I didn't plan my life revolving around an illness, nor did it ever cross my mind. I had forever dreamed of a life outside of the city, whether it was driven by the thought of escape, or hunger.

           They said that the disease made me unmotivated, yet I had always found an incentive. Even through my worst days I had something that had driven me up to that point. It would always change, month by month, sometimes sooner. In April it was disbelief, surely it was a mistake, medical school doesn't teach you how to resolve your own arrogance. In may, there was little change, it all came down to stubbornness. In June, it was none other than you