Impaled

  I can't believe I'm still dying.
  There's a wooden pole in the ground, and I'm stuck halfway through it. For the last hour, I've watched my own blood trickle down, slowly draining me.
  I screamed for the first moments, my cries echoing across the vast, empty field. But my voice has grown hoarse, and my head feels too light.
  I've cried for most of the last hour. It was only recently that I ran out of tears. But inside, my weeping still continues.
  The pain I feel is agony itself, manifested. It's everything I've feared of death. Every breath is a whimpering plea, every slight movement brings about a new flood of torture. Every moment of life is another moment that I pray for the sweet release of death.
  For a few short, unlasting minutes, when it first dawned on me that I was impaled on this wooden pole, I had the fool's hope of rescue. When I felt that my guts were spewed a bit, just above me, when I noticed the pole below turn red with my blood, all my hope dripped down with it. When I came to the full realization of just how prolonged this would be, all I wished for was death.
  I was once thankful for pain. I've always seen it as a warning against danger, a necessary evil for survival. Now though, I would give anything just to stop feeling. Oh, it hurts. This whole time, I've been slowly, slowly inching my way down this splintered wood, feeling my cold, coagulated blood force its way back into my body. How long? How much longer can I possibly live like this? Please, just end this. Just let me die already.
  I'm getting close now, I hope. I'm so dizzy, so tired. My adrenaline is wearing down, I can't last much longer. Thank God. My blood has formed a puddle below me. I'm only half a foot away from the ground.
  Perhaps, if I close my eyes long enough, the pain will go away.