Some say there is reason and meaning behind death...

A bloody chest, splitting headache and what felt like a nail through my spine. You have probably read all of the news stories and seen all the insurance adverts of horrible accidents, and like me, the message of "it could happen to you" would only serve as a minor thought across a busy brain at best. Well, I lie here today as barely living proof that it is true. Anything can, and anything will happen.

The weather was temperate as it had been for the past few weeks; the sun remained unbothered in its expanding sky, and the wind gently corressed the few hairs upon my temple... that's my last memory. I have been told I was in a coma for 3 weeks in a constant state of circadian unease, but I have no evidence to fortify this message, blind faith helps fill in the gaps. The room I was moved to was one of synthetic authoritarianism, designed to contain rather than to protect. The flourescence would mature a seedling in an instant like the hand of Saturn himself; but none of this mattered... I couldn't move.

This was it, my punishment for years of insubordination with others. My mind wondered endlessly to find any semblence of reason behind my state. Self-conviction is a dangerous concept, especially due to the absence of a jury. It is the same concept allowing the insane to justify murder and permitting the fearful to commit suicide - it's danger stems from its subjectivity.

Echoes of my past reverberated across the motionless confines of my person: stepping on an ant as a child, lying about my infant crimes, leaving a mess in my room. Anything that could be considered remotely wrong would be added to the scales of Madam Justice. I could only watch as the angle of depression creeped further and further downwards towards my inevitable conviction. Anything good I ever did would be either subconsciously ignored, or invalidated by the principle of "there is no such thing as a selfless act." Put simply, I deserved what had happened to me, and I had proven that fact.

A doctor entered midway through my trial, remaining silent as to let the verdict be decided. He was the usual cut-dry apothecary with oversized spectacles and a wrinkle for every patient cured. His gaze never deviated from me, and he did not say a word, nor did he do anything; he just placed a sheet of paper on my lap and left.

My neck had to bend inwards, neck rubbing against my chest with a flurry of heat and moisture, just to read the thin sheet. On it was a short description of what had happened:

June 23rd, 2025:
Construction worker at a playground run over by a drunken driver (a felon convicted of rape and murder, released one day prior to the incident of the name Thomas Durden). Driver deceased after crashing into a tree. Construction worker left paralysed with mild brain damage.

I didn't know what to say. So I did not say anything. The doctor left, allowing me to re-evaluate the proceeding. Maybe I did deserve what had happened to me; but maybe, just maybe, I served as a mild sacrifice to save the rest of the world from an evil force; or it could be both. Either way, justice has been served, and by whom, I did not know, and I still do not know to this day. Frankly, I do not care. All that matters is that from that moment forth I dedicated my life to helping others, and I lived a good life with a happy family and kids.

Dear Janice and Jeramiah Johnson,

I regret to inform you your son died when a cinderblock fell through his helmet. His body is currently present at [...] hospital if you would like to proceed with any appropriate rituals.

From,

Doctor Durden

...I disagree.