"A little boy is slowly shot from a cannon." -Zach Schomburg, from The Man Suit

Answer

Every movement I make brings excruciating pain. Even the slightest toe twitch throws me into a violent, screaming fit. I need this package delivered, as quickly as possible you say. I jump up from my seat, howling in pain, clutching my back and gut at the same time. I’ll do it I stammer, staggering towards you, hand held out. You take a step back. Anyone else you say. I bend over and dry heave, the pain so unbearable, but I manage to step over, until I’m directly in front of you. No, I’ll do it I say. Your eyes begin welling up with tears. You’re not the right man for this job you say. Nonsense I say with a groan, swallowing in a cry as I stand up straight, a burning sensation shooting through my spine. I have to prove something to you, although I’m not quite sure exactly what, yet. I hold my head high, on my neck that feels broken. You’ll die, though you say. You’ll surely die. By now you were weeping openly, stammering yourself. You always were delicate, emotionally, weren’t you? I grab the package, collapse and begin convulsing, a broken heap on the floor. You don’t have to do this you scream, desperately. Stop it. I smile, the muscles in my face feeling as if they are tearing. Where do you need this delivered I say from the floor, feeling stronger, and braver, than I’ve ever before felt in my life.