I have spent many long, agonizing hours in my life in the throws of migraines. It has had a profound effect on
me as a person.
Early into my treatment by my first neurologist, he told me that he has had patients try to use their talents in some
way to express how their migraines make them feel. He explained that he had one woman who painted a complex piece depicting
her pain and feelings during a migraine.
In an attempt to do this, I wrote the following piece:
You sit alone in the cold grey of your cell, its thick walls isolating you from most of the world.
You've learned to recognize the booted steps of your jailer when he brings you bread and water, sometimes a greasy bit of
meat or mealy apple.
You've also learned another sound, can hear it from quite far off. The torturer comes on booted feet,
and he's placed brass tacks in the heels so you can be sure to hear him coming up the stone hallways. Clack-clack-cli-cli-clack
he comes. And at the first faint whispers of it you hold your breath to try to hear which way he's going, but it's hard
to tell for the thundering pulse in your ears. The clacking gets louder and louder and soon stops
in front of your door. The rattle and scrape of keys in the rusty lock...and there he is.
There's nowhere to hide. And you wish he's ask you questions because you'd tell him anything, anything,
to make him go away. But he's only here to practice his craft, which he does with great skill and precision. For
hours you wallow in the rich agony that makes you welcome death, but you aren't allowed even the respite of unconsciousness.
You writhe and retch and moan until you are a sodden, broken mess, and then he leaves you just as matter-of-factly as he came.
Until the next time.