| Current mood: |  pleased |
Constipation
It was a tiny sliver of odorous brown human waste, powdery and disgusting, lying at the bottom of the dirty toilet, looking quite impertinent as the fumes rose to the surface. One could hear my relative's groans and screams from a room at the other side of the house--every bit of fecal matter, forced out with a moan and a cry of anguish, seemed to have been brutally ripped off. It had not slithered out easily--no, it had lurked in its lair until the time came. Every one of my relative's screams was a triumph for it. Every scream meant more agony and toil, more writhing and shaking and torture--every scream meant some human waste forced out with fiery, blazing pain that stung and burned for what seemed like eternity, that seemed like deep gashes and bloody wounds on fire, that seemed worse than the pain of a thousand gruesome deaths, that seemed to be worse than burning at the stake or being stretched on the rack or being slowly drowned.
The toilet water afterwards was still colored a dark liquid sort of brown, and one was extremely foolish to get near the toilet without plugging one's nose; it would likely be suicide to bend down and sniff it, and who would want to, anyways? for it would be a most horribly gruesome and torturous sort of death. Forcing the fecal matter out was already, however, rather like death, for it was like being burnt a thousand times over, never free from the sting and pain and blood and toil and cries of
horror and terror and shock. And when you WERE free from that hellhole of misery, that area of doom, that hopeless tunnel of despair, then it was like entering a sunny paradise of flowers and food after being starved in a dark, barren desert--it was like the ray of sunlight coming through a neverending tunnel as you're just about to give up. When those torturous moments did end, it was like going to a strange kind of heaven after a strange kind of death. It was like looking up to a blue, blue sky after hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries of fog, mist, and rain, and knowing that tomorrow and the day after tomorrow was going to be sunny, and that everything would be alright.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The described victim in this article is not myself. It is a relative.
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