Death would be kinder. It's not really the pain that kills the ill, it's the sickness wearing you down like an old dog; that she has seen herself.
The rocks are cold. Nobody will come to hold her, but the hope that keeps her alive is also what's killing her. Death would be kinder; she wouldn't need to feel this shallow pain or these dark thoughts. It doesn't hurt enough to make her faint; she wishes it did. The nausea annoys her, she wishes her body will either leave her empty or leave her alone.
Uncertainty is the darkest pit of hell, is the mass grave where all the sick cows are thrown into.
Please, let death come. Let it take away the tiredness.
Tears run down her face and neck, she is in too much discomfort to wipe them off. She always hoped that someone would be to her side when pain knocked her senseless.
Nobody's here. Nobody but the pain.