She's in a serious condition, the doctor says. She's in a serious condition. She's in a serious condition. Like echoes of a cool dark cave of black, black endlessness I hear these words again and again, too often, too quickly, too many times.
She's in a serious condition, he says.
And continues.
It's a rare type of atrophy.
Is there a treatment? My father wants to know. There is desperation in his voice, but no hope.
We all know there is no treatment.
Two days ago, I was fine. I was twelve, ambitious, and very much alive. Yesterday, I was a car wreck hovering between life and death, and today, I am much, much more dead than alive. The thin line between life and death is the sterile, cold plastic pumping nutrients into my body, trying to break me out of death's icy grip.
A/N: The end. Just kidding. Maybe. I'm not sure where this was leading... gee, what is with the depressing stuff? I have to write something happy now...
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