The
worst part is conciseness. I am not really conscience, only perhaps
half there. And I don’t know where or what there
is.
I
am slowly aware of the other zombies around me in varying stages of
slow movement. They and the entire area seem to be surrounded by and
permeated in a thick opaque whitish fog.
The
forms start to morph into male zombies and female zombies. I knew by
their clothing. I know, but don’t know how I know. They--and I
are in various stages of becoming alive.
Some
are still lying on gurneys, immobile, unconscious.
I
don’t remember at this time that I was lying on a gurney on top of
several hospital sheets. I was surrounded by medical personal.
Busy. They are working quickly now. A needle is inserted into a
vein in my arm. Electrodes are being prepared. Patches on my head
and temples are swabbed with a coldish jell. A large syringe is
fastened into the needle in my arm. They want me to count backward
from ten. I never make it past seven. My last conscious memory is
of the sheets being quickly folded over my legs and a rubber block
placed in my mouth so I don’t chew or swallow my tongue or break my
teeth when I convulse.
For
several days I am only a semi-zombie and gradually life calms, the
depression is defined and recedes, and slowly I begin to feel better.
It took six or eight of these to get me onto a level playing field.
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