The blood rushing from my hand into my mouth tasted like water out of a metal cup, only a lot stronger. My fingernails had gotten too long, and while I bit into my hand harder and harder my other hand clawed into the flesh, pulling and ripping. I was being stabbed by 10,000 tiny knives into every millimeter of my left arm, from the shoulder down to the hand. Every time my mouth filled with blood, I took a break from biting to spit it out and scream at the top of my lungs. All I hoped for is someone would put me out of my misery quickly. I was face down in the asphalt of the road, and was there for what must have been thousands of hours until I was flipped onto my back and quickly had a ripped strip of white fabric shoved into my mouth. Through my blurred vision, I realized it was a priest, who had ripped his and shoved some of the fabric into my mouth so I would stop biting deeper into the flesh and bone of my hand. Then, he pinned my right arm into the ground so I couldn't claw and tear any more. I hate him. I want him to take a rock and smash my face into the ground over and over again until I don't exist anymore. My half-limp left hand grasped at his joue and stained it redder and redder with every half-second. With one hand he pinned my right arm to the ground and with another he stroked my hair while my own left hand grasped and clawed at the bloody fabric over his chest. After several more thousands of hours I realized I was screaming and sobbing at the top of my lungs, and there was a sizeable crowd of people watching what they must have saw as a crazed suicidal maniac, when in reality I was a completely rational suicidal individual. Who wouldn't want to die under such intense pain and agony. We put down dogs and cats who feel 0.001% of this pain, why can't the priest just put me down? After a few more years, the ambulance arrived, and I was agonizingly slowly lifted in and eventually granted an injection of morphine. Like that, the knives stopped, and I could half-consciously analyze the damage I had done to my body, while the priest sat beside me still stroking my hair. My left arm from the shoulder to the fingers was in tatters. I could see raw veins, fat, muscle, cartilage, and bone, and it was pouring out blood from all over. They were desperately trying to put it back together, but I got the feeling that I would most likely lose the entire arm.

At the hospital, I was informed that they found the medical documents in my bag, and were able to conclude that the extreme pain was a result of the prion disease, and that this intense pain indicates I'm at the later stages of the illness, maybe 6 months left at the most extreme. They prescribed me fentanyl buccal tablets and extended release morphine tablets. I was to take the morphine every day and when the pain was so intense that the morphine wasn't enough to help it, lay down and take a fentanyl tablet. For some reason, after that explanation, the priest walked in. "You're dying, right? Let me pray with you." I'm an atheist, so I quickly said, "I don't believe in praying." He seemingly didn't need to think about his response, "For me, pray with me. It will easy my mind." And like that, a small honest grin crept up on his face. It was reassuring. So I let him pray with me. I don't remember exactly what we prayed for, but it did feel nice. All of the sudden, I remembered that he ripped apart is joue for me and that I covered his in blood; he was in a t-shirt and jeans now. "I'm sorry about your joue." He looked a little bit confused, "Why would you be sorry? I came to you." He was right, but I couldn't help but feel embarrassed. All I could say was, "Why?" He again looked confused, "Your screams were so loud, I thought you were being attacked. When I got there, I assumed you were having some sort of mental-health episode and were trying to kill yourself. I didn't want you to kill yourself. But the doctors told me a little bit about your condition. I'm sorry. If there's any chance you'll survive I will pray for that. If you ever change your mind and want to pray with me, just come to the shrine, I'm there most days." And that same heartwarming smile crept across his face. I tried my best to give him a smile back, and he walked out without saying goodbye.

I looked at my arm. Somehow it was intact, although held together by what must have been over two or three hundred stitches and staples. I could kind of move it, but that felt weird. While I was playing with my mostly-destroyed left arm, a doctor walked in. "How have you been feeling on the trial?" I hadn't even thought about it much, so I told him, "I don't feel anything on the trial. Clearly it's not working." He nods his head slightly, "Exactly my thoughts. Look, I studied CJS in med school, and, if you are willing to, there's something I'd like to try. It's intense, so there's no pressure." I expected him to explain, but he's just looking at me, a little excited. "What do you want to try?"