Glass by Shahd AlShammari

They promised us that after death, the stage would be reset, and I would be reborn.

There would be no more suffering, no more of that that thing we had grown accustomed to: pain.

But first, they handed us a paper: 

I, Patient Number 001, I, the undersigned, I, the Body. I hereby declare that I will not come at you, Doctors, with Knives. I will Not Protest. My ghost will not haunt you, under the circumstance of my possible death.

I gambled. I signed. I didn’t believe in Ghosts anyway.

They threw their heads back, laughed in triumph. The Experiment was on its way.

Darkness came, I lost all five senses. Except my sixth –the sense that you were still there.

And with each cry that escaped my lips, you cried louder: your gasps echoed the murder.

They said you shouldn’t be in the O.R. and shoved you behind glass doors.

And then slowly, precisely, they cut through my flesh, and you bled.

All I heard were muffled screams and you, outside, begging to be let in.

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