Joshua lay there, paralyzed, struggling against the weight of his own body. He willed his arm to move, to lift, to obey his command, but nothing happened. His eyelids felt heavy, refusing to open, and a sense of dread began to creep in.

What had happened?

The last thing he remembered was the laughter and camaraderie of a gathering with friends. But amidst the revelry, a headache had begun to pulse, and the room had started to spin. Joshua had experienced this before, the telltale signs of his blood pressure rising, and he cursed himself for giving in to the temptation of the roasted pig. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he felt a chill run through his body, as if his own flesh was rejecting him. He had been about to stand, to try and steady himself, but the spinning had only intensified. And then...nothing.

Panic set in as he wondered if he had suffered a stroke. It was the only logical explanation for his current state, but the thought of it sent a shiver of fear through him. Was it normal for even his eyes to refuse to obey him? Joshua was lost in confusion, unsure of the severity of his condition.

As he lay there, his thoughts grew deeper, and for the first time, he became aware of his surroundings. The bed was cold, unyielding, as if made of stone, slick like a mirror, but not freezing. He realized that he must be lying on a metal bed. The chill was seeping into his muscles, making him shiver.

The sound of a door opening jolted him awake, and he could hear the muffled voices of two men, their words indistinguishable but their presence palpable. Even the sound of their shoes scuffing against the floor was clearly audible in the silence.

"We still have two more to take care of. I want to go home," one of them said, his voice tinged with annoyance.

"Let's finish this one first. This one would be easier," the other replied.

Joshua couldn't understand their conversation, but it was a small comfort to know that they were there, that they were taking care of him. The mention of a doctor sent a wave of relief through him, confirming that he was indeed in a hospital. Surely, they wouldn't neglect him.

As Joshua lay there, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of metal clanging nearby, like something had fallen. He had been in hospitals before, but there was something different about this one. Why was his bed so hard? Why was the air conditioning so high and why was he so cold? He couldn't shake the feeling of the metal bed beneath him and the chill in the air. He realized that he wasn't covered by any blanket.

He fought against the weight on his eyelids, struggling to open them. It felt like something heavy and oppressive was pushing down on them, making it a monumental task. Joshua persisted, determined to see where he was. Finally, he succeeded, his eyes fluttering open to reveal a stark white ceiling above him. But even with his eyes open, he couldn't move his head to take in his surroundings. He couldn't even make a sound.

Disturbing sounds filtered into his consciousness. The sharp thud of something being struck, the grating whir of a grinder, and the steady flow of water. Where was he? The door opened again, and he heard someone enter the room.

"Are you not done yet? The other patient is ready for operation?"

"Just a moment. If only you would help us. Do you think it's that easy to extract an organ from a person? If you want to help, start on the other organ donor."

Extract an organ? Organ donor? The words sent a chill down Joshua's spine as he began to piece together the gruesome reality of his situation. He was sure he was in a hospital, but the cold, metallic bed and the eerie sounds made him question that assumption. He realized with a sickening sense of dread that he was lying on a dissection table. He was in the morgue.

"I am still alive," He muttered to himself, trying to make sense of the situation. Desperately, he remembered his driver's license that declared him as an organ donor. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, maybe they thought he was already dead. But, why was he in the morgue, being prepped for organ removal? He couldn't comprehend the thoughts swirling in his mind, all that mattered was that he needed to let them know that he was still alive.

Joshua tried to speak up, to shout, but his voice was nothing more than a whisper. He could hear the muffled conversations of the people around him, the clanking of metal tools, and the squeaky of wheels that needed oil, all of it contributing to the eerie atmosphere.

"Deliver this organ to the operating room. Then call our assistant to prepare the body of this person. Inform the family that they can now take the body," One of the men said, the sound of the door opening and closing indicating that the person had left.

"One more," another voice said, a chill running down his spine as Joshua realized the gravity of the situation.

"What's the order there?"

"Cornea and lungs,"

He could hear their footsteps getting closer, the sound of their shoes scuffing against the floor. Finally, they came into view, but he didn't know whether to feel relief or fear. He knew their purpose and it filled him with dread. He tried to move his eyes, he prayed, hoping that they would realize that he was still alive before they operated. That maybe, just maybe, they would check for a pulse. He had to trust the experts in front of him.

They went about their work with precision, the instruments they were using, some for cutting and some for dissecting. This was what he was hearing earlier. They put the blinding light that is often used during operations in front of him. They also put something in his eyes that completely opened his eyelids.

Joshua lay there, paralyzed with fear as the reality of his situation set in. He was trapped, unable to move or speak, at the mercy of these strangers who were preparing to extract his organs. Panic rose in his chest as he desperately tried to convey to them that he was alive, that they had made a mistake. But they were focused on their task, indifferent to his pleas.

He watched in horror as they readied their tools, the glint of steel catching his eye. He could feel the cold metal against his skin, the chill of the room seeping into his bones. He could hear the muffled sound of their conversation, discussing the order in which to remove his organs. He felt like a specimen on a dissection table, nothing more than a collection of parts to be harvested.

"Wait," he said to himself, his thoughts racing as the scalpel hovered inches from his eye. He couldn't believe that they hadn't even checked his pulse or noticed that his pupils hadn't reacted to the light. Surely, they must have seen that he was still alive.

He watched in horror as one of the men in front of him reached for a sharp object, only realizing it was a scalpel when it was pointed directly at his eyes. If he didn't do something fast, they would proceed with the operation.

He stared at the scalpel, inches from his eyes, held by the hand of one of the men in front of him. Panic raced through him as he realized that if he didn't act, they would proceed with the operation on him. He searched his mind for a way to make them understand that he was still alive.

Desperate, he forced a sound from his throat, a guttural moan that made the man holding the scalpel pause. The two men exchanged a glance, confusion etched on their faces.

He let out a sigh of relief, feeling a spark of gratitude that he had managed to make a sound. He silently thanked God for being with him in this moment of crisis. He knew that God wouldn't abandon him.

"Look at this, dude," one of the men said to his colleague, pointing at him.

"Why?"

"Just look."

The other man leaned in, studying him closely. He could sense that they were starting to realize that he was still alive. Maybe they would transfer him to a proper room now. He couldn't take the cold metal bed or the bright light anymore.

"His eyes are moving?" one of them said, finally noticing the signs of life in him.

He felt a sense of dread wash over him as he heard their laughter echo through the sterile room. The morgue was no place for mirth, not when a living person lay helpless on the table before them. He should have known something was off when no one rushed to his aid after he made a sound. His suspicions were confirmed when the man standing over him spoke.

"We know you're still alive, Sir. We were going to extract your organs while you were under, but you woke up. Probably due to the number of patients we've worked on, we miscalculated the dosage of anesthesia. Just bear with us. It will take more time if we had to inject another dose of anesthesia. We want to get out of here and go home."

Joshua tried to speak, to plead for them to stop, but all that emerged from his throat were weak, muffled sounds. He felt the cold metal of the scalpel pressing against his eye and the searing pain as they cut into the flesh around it. He could feel himself slipping away as they began to make incisions on his chest. 

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