A Desert Death

It's a special kind of dying in the desert, a cruelty all its own, an attack on the mind as well as the body. The roasting sun hears not your pleas and knows not your protests, its only job to bring suffocating waves of heat without pause or hesitation. Your brain literally cooks in the oven that is your head. Your protective skin withers in peeling layers from the fiery rays. Parched lips crack and split open, knowing tomorrow will bring more the same.

When the sandstorms come, no one is left on the planet but you. No beast may hear you or see you in the blinding and deafening winds that trap you more surely than any prison cell. With the time of your sentence unknown, the mind goes mad with anticipation of release yet feeling that time may never come. Yes, when the imprisoning sand rises up, its rule is absolute, severing you from all human needs.

Nighttime is daytime's left over decay. During the day's domain, the mind, body and soul hunker down like in a tank-like bunker. The task then is simply to endure. Night brings the pain of breathing. Demons of the dark demand their due. Where is love? Where are dreams? Where is hope? Unsatisfactory answers are rewarded by a pitchfork's painful poke. The torturers ask again and again until night reaches end. You cannot beat the demon, only expel it.

Any "water" you find is rancid and foul, pools rejected by the living souls who travel by in life's caravans. One taste - and drink one must - and your guts twist in agony as the black liquid poisons it way through your system, bending you in contorted hell. You pray for death, but death will not come. You stand as your own enemy, cursing yourself for the water that sustains nothing but delay of doom.

Sometimes, wandering angels drift by - my only companions without snarling teeth or a lizard's cold skin. For hours I've sat motionless in an empty stare, caring only for the end. The angels spark a faint flicker of life in my black universe. Crawling slowly, my worn feeble hand rubs my sand encrusted eyes as my body protests my movements with howls of pain. I reach my pen and paper, weathering the sandstorms of my mind unleashed by the fury of sudden sobriety.

I can hear the angels above discussing me.

"What on earth is that wretched creature doing?"

"I can't imagine it's anything of use."

"Perhaps he's writing a suicide note..."

"Who's going to read it? The vultures?"

"Oh, I see now! He's blogging!"

"Blogging? Well, all I got to say is it better be witty and funny or I'm not reading that shit."