Thirsty, Page 2

myself against the hurt, the possible ripping off of flesh. I pulled harder, visions of bears in steel traps gnawing off their own arms dancing in my head.

  But it was impossible. The biting metal forced me down, panting, tears in my eyes. I can’t do it. It hurts too much. My lids closed to protect me from the blinding light that hovered perpetually, like a mocking face. My muscles ached, and I forced them to relax, trying to ignore the soreness, the cuts in my wrist.

  I’m not ready to die. Rivulets formed on my cheeks, dripping onto the plastic mattress. Please, God, don’t let me die.