I don’t even know where here is.
It’s cold, cold and empty. People pass by and gawk.
I am a prisoner. But what is my crime? I can hear them speaking—cruel, barbed words—but I do not understand the sentence. Won’t someone explain why I’m here? Can’t someone rescue me?
Sometimes I see a man. I think I knew him before. But he scares me. I think he’s the reason I’m here. But if he didn’t imprison me, he wants me to stay here for a long time.
Others come—they call me sister and daughter. I sometimes remember them—light and laughter from a long time ago. When I try to speak, I don’t think they can hear me.
I have been here so long—they won’t let me out—and he has barred the gates against them. Guards patrol the halls, keeping others away.
Now they come for me. I scream, but they don’t hear. I try to run, but my legs can’t move. “What are you doing?”
They don’t look at me.
I am dragged outside into the winter cold.Guards form a barrier between my would-be rescuers and me.
I stare at their blankets as I freeze to death
In memory of Terri Schiavo
December 3, 1963 ~ March 31, 2005