When She Dies

T.W. First person death, depressionist behavior

I’m aware of only a few things. The first, the feel of my dying hand in his warm one. The second, the sound of the heart monitors. The cold around the IV in my arm. My mother weeping in the corner. My father's sobs from the hallway. The smell of a sterile hospital room. My grandmother gave the final word. The one saying I had to die.

“I’M HERE” I want to scream. I wanted to wake up. I wanted them to know I was here. That I wasn’t floating off somewhere. I’m here. I’m here. Please. Don’t make me die. I have so much to live for.

The doctor walks in. I can tell, his hand stills and my moms cry’s silence. I can’t hear my dad, he probably wandered to a private place to cry. I want to cry. I want to do something. I try to make my fingers squeeze his hand. I try to move my feet, open my eyes, anything. I’m not even breathing for myself. The respirator is keeping me alive.

I probably look peaceful from the outside. But I’m really not. In all reality I’m screaming, trying to force my way out of my head, trying to break out. To let someone know that I’m here.

The doctor's voice. Underwater? No, that’s my brain dying. I’m dying. I don’t want to let go. I have to stay. I wish that my body would react to the panic like it was supposed to. I know it won’t, I can’t even breathe on my own.

I want to go home. To my own bed, where I know I’ll be fine. Where every inch of my body doesn’t feel like it’s been dipped in liquid nitrogen. I don’t want to die.

But I know I will. I’m already letting go. My resolve crumbled the thin strings I was already holding onto. I can feel myself falling into oblivion. Into something I’ve never experienced. It’s strange.

Not like sinking like how the books describe, but it’s more like floating down, down, down, down. I wasn’t sure where I was going or what my family would do once they finally pulled the plug and stopped their expenses.

Sinking is not the correct way to describe this feeling. It’s like falling through cotton. It’s slow and almost agonizing. My fingers are cold. I can’t feel anything below my waist.

What happened? I want to ask. I want someone to tell me why I’m barely alive.

Is it wrong to want? Or is it right to want? But only because I might as well be dead already? Is it wrong of me to die? What did I do to deserve this fate? Will I die with a head full of questions? None of them answered?

I’m snapped back to the present by my grandmother's voice whispering in my ear, her breath tickling my neck.

“If you wanna go, go now girly. I don’t want to be the one to end it.” Her honey sweet voice, ripened with age, was close enough to me that no one else heard. I wanted to stay. Oh God I wanted to stay more than anything. But I was already losing my hold, already giving up.

I didn’t move. It’s like I’d forgotten how. I was losing feeling in my torso, my arms didn’t feel cold anymore, I couldn’t feel them at all. Was I really going to die? Without even knowing what happened?

I guess I had to let go. Drop the thin strings I was fighting so hard to hold on to. Let myself fall down. I’m afraid. So afraid. What would be waiting for me? Or would I roam the world as a lost soul? What would become of me?

Tears welled up in my eyes. One slid down my cheek. It was warm to my cool skin. And I let go.

---

After her Grandmother gave the signal to cut it, I noticed a tear running down her cheek. I made the doctors and nurses stop. She was still in there. And then her heart stopped.

My stomach dropped. I couldn’t let go of her hand. She had to be there still. She had to be. I squeezed her hand again, hoping for a response. Nothing happened. The monitor is still flatlined. 

I let go of her hand and dropped my face into my palms. Trying to hold back the cries I wanted to let out. Trying to undo it all. It’s my fault. All my fault.

Tears pool in my eyes and I struggle to keep them in as I look up at her family. Her Grandmother's face was sullen, her blue eyes cold. I couldn’t even look at her parents. Their grief must be unbearable. I feel so bad.

There is no way to describe the mourning that they’ll go through because of me. All because of me. I can’t tell anyone, I don’t have the heart. It’d only hurt them more.

I’m ushered out of the room and into the lobby. She’s gone, I’m not allowed in anymore. I wasn’t in the first place.

The pit in my stomach only grows when I notice all the rest of her family members in chairs along the walls. I can’t look any of them in the face, I don’t know what I’ll see. I don’t think I’m ready to see any of it.

I scrub a hand over my eyes as I walk outside to my car. The tears I’ve been holding in escape as soon as I’m in the driver's seat. They fall all the way to my house and finally stop once I’m in my parents garage.

I avoid their gazes from the kitchen table as I go upstairs without a word. I know I must look a mess. The ever present circles under my eyes only got darker this week.

My room looks the same as I’d left it. I haven’t been here since she was hospitalized. It’s foreign now. I’m used to the uncomfortable chair in her room.

I haven’t been able to sleep either. Only sit with my arms across my chest and watch the respirator breathe for her, waiting for her to open her eyes and look at me. I knew she never would. Somehow, I knew she’d given up the moment she was put in the hospital. She could only fight so long.

The next few hours are a blur. My parents barge into my room and ask me all the questions I’m not ready for. When they finally leave, I’m a wreck.

Is it wrong for me to not be ready when she wasn’t ready to go? Is it wrong for me to want when she wanted so much but got nothing? Is it wrong for me to breathe when she can’t? I don’t think I’ll ever find the answers.

When I sleep I’m only aware of a few things. The first, the sound of my parents fighting downstairs. The second, the neighborhood dogs barking down the street. The pit in my stomach that only seems to grow. The mess I’ve become, fighting everything around me. The help that’s pushed towards me that I relentlessly push away.

I don’t want to think about her, but I do. Not any memories specifically. Just the way her blonde hair looked in the sunset. And how she looked when she was asleep. The way she would go on and on about things she was passionate about.

I swear to God I saw her face next to me. I fell asleep to her breathing that matched mine. 

I woke up with a start. My room was still dark. What time was it? Oh my God, it was only eleven. I was never going to make it to morning.

Going back to sleep clearly wasn’t an option. So I got up, ran my fingers through my hair and walked down to the kitchen. Mom went shopping right?

Not right. We had little to no food. No milk in the fridge either. God, how do they survive? I’d have to run to the grocer before school next week.

With that out of the way, I have to figure out how I’m going to sleep. All the melatonin are in my parents bedroom, across the house. It’s dark enough in the kitchen, so I’ll settle for something else. So be it if it’s cold medicine that hasn’t failed to knock me out yet.

I swallow a couple pills and head back upstairs, medicine in hand (in case I need it again), hoping morning comes soon.

It doesn’t. I wake up again at two. I groan and stay in bed this time, the taste of the medicine lingers on my tongue. A rotten flavor.

I keep hoping that someone would text me, tell me it's okay. She was my girlfriend for Christ sake! I watched the life drain from her! No sympathy? Damn.

Okay, I'll admit, she and I were an incredibly private couple. No one really knew about us I guess. Is it selfish of me to want pity for someone else's death? Who wasn't even related to me?

I pick up my phone from my side table, my body unwilling to go back to sleep, and open my social app.

Did you hear about Charlie's kid? Died at the hospital a few days after arriving. Sorry for your loss y'all.

-Maverik

Maverik is well meaning, he just has a weird way of expressing himself in words. I'm certain he'd hug her parents if he could.

Mr. and Mrs. Garner's daughter dies after three days in the hospital? Unreal. I feel so bad for her family! Did she have any close friends or maybe even a partner? I'm curious to know.

-Diane

Diane, my twin sister's best friend. She never talked about her. Neither did my sister. I decide to comment to Diane's post.

Yeah, she did have a partner. She and I were private up until she died. I was in the hospital right up 'til the flat-lining monitor. She was close with her little brother, and Sophie.

-David

I'm not sure why, but I feel more comfortable on the internet than I do at home or at school.

After a few hours on social media, I fall asleep. When you fall asleep does your heart get really slow? Does your head always feel cut off from your body? Why am I so cold? I. Can't. Move. Anything. I can't even open my eyes. Is this what she felt in her last few hours too? Am I really going to see her again?

I'm not even going to fight. I'm too tired to fight. My eye's open for a second and I catch a hazy glimpse of the medicine I took earlier. BelladonNa alkaloids. Serving Size: one tablet, more than one could cause severe nausea and in some cases, death.

Shit.