I have wished for death three times in my life. The first was when the first experiments had first started. I had wished for an imaginary reaper to come take me away from all the pain and torment I was suffering through. I wished again for death at the compound while the “fight club” of sorts was still going on. It wasn’t until two of my roommates committed suicide in equally gruesome ways that I decided life was worth living. I thought about it again, now as I lay on something hard and unforgiving. I didn’t care to know how long I was out. I just didn’t want to wake up. When I did start to come to, I did everything I could to keep in the weird, dark abyss that seemed like the better option than facing whatever waited for me in the conscious world. For the first time, I wished I was like A
