I’m tired, too tired of this portable torture chamber for a body, and I start sobbing. It’s all I’ve thought about lately; it’s even consuming my daydreams, and I’m just done. I curl further into the fetal position, pressing the heating pad to my stomach. Cold sweat beads on my forehead from the pain. Nausea intensifies, and my heart races at a dangerous level. I beg internally for a relief I know will only come when it’s good and ready. Shit. I shake, stretching out my legs and writhing because, at this point, I’m disconnected from my actions, desperately finding any way to lie that will
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