My eyes open on the table. When did I return home? All that happened to me... was I deserving of all that? Did those three people die truly because of me?
The burden of memories is very heavy. Let me write down the notes. I pick up the pen from the side box and, picking up an old piece of paper lying in a corner, I begin to write.
Today, I met a patient whose voice reflected a deep silence and profound pain. She was telling her story as if she had to endure an unbearable agony at every single moment. She was battling an incurable disease. Tears were welling up in her eyes, but somehow, I don't know how, she had held those tears back. I kept listening to her words in silence... my heart had as if melted.
I remember how people held my hand and showed me the way... the one who treated me, held my hand and brought me here. But upon returning home, I became the same again—a burden. I have become a burden to this world. Why doesn't death come to me? Tell the people to kill me... I am just a burden to this world.