Firework

“I’ve made it another year,” her voice said faintly. It was barely audible. Only those who really tried to listen to her could hear. Thankfully, there were people gathered around her who cared. They cared about her well-being and wanted the best for her. Her family came and visited every day. She was blessed to have them. On the right of her sat her parents. The children on the left were her younger siblings. She was the oldest of them at the age of thirteen. After her came Emily who was eleven, and her younger brother Jack who had recently turned six. Her thirteenth birthday had taken place in this room. She’d spent all her time in this room.  She’d last left the room three years ago.

            Yes, she had a window that she was able to look out of, but it wasn’t the same as actually being outside. She no longer remembered what it felt like to stand out in the sun. She no longer remembered the breeze, and she had trouble remembering the feeling of running around. Her body barely remembered how to move around. So she laid in the bed and never left. 

            She had always felt different. There were times when she felt weak. So weak that she had to lie down wherever she was at the time. She wasn’t the first to start feeling this way. There were others. Only a few at first, but then more. So many more. Randomly, some people began to feel weak. It didn’t start at the same time for people. It was some type of mysterious illness. 

            “Right now, around five percent of the population is struggling. They’re doing their best to fight off an unknown virus. This virus makes a person’s body feel weak. Overtime, we’ve found that people get so weak that even their hearts will tire out and stop beating. Our teams are working tirelessly to figure out what’s going on,” someone had said once. “We will find a cure for it as soon as we can. Then we’ll begin distributing the antidotes.”

            The girl no longer remembered who had said that. It was probably some sort of scientist. She had trouble remembering. Her memory didn’t work well anymore. It, too, was getting weaker and weaker. Sometimes she had trouble remembering where she was and who she was. It sometimes took hours before she could remember these simple things. At first she had hidden all symptoms of being sick. Because she was scared.

            Maybe if I don’t mention that I’m feeling weaker, it’ll go away. Her ten-year-old self had thought. Then I’ll start feeling normal again. I’m not sick like the other people. I’m probably just tired. I’ll just wait to tell mom and dad. 

            She had waited too long. One day, she was out at the park with her family. She was running around with her three-year-old brother on her back. He was squealing with delight, and she had laughed. But she was beginning to feel weak. She ignored those feelings. She could run for a bit longer. If only to make him happy. Her body began feeling more sluggish. Her eyes narrowed in concentration, and she had begun to sweat heavily. She was panting hard. Her brother was oblivious to her struggles and continued to have fun. Her hold on him was starting to weaken as her hands got more and more exhausted. 

            Only another minute. She had told herself. Then I’ll put him down. Her eyes began to close as another wave of exhaustion hit her. This time, stronger than the rest. She had to hold on, but she couldn’t. She collapsed onto the ground, her brother hitting the ground with her. He began to cry, and she could hear her parents yelling. She heard footsteps coming towards her. The feet pounding on the ground was a lullaby and it sung her off to sleep.  She was asleep for a week. When she woke up, she was in the hospital. She had looked around and saw her family staring at her. They were upset. Her siblings were crying, and her parents were barely holding it together. 

            “What’s wrong?” she tried to say, but her voice wouldn’t work. She was too tired. She could only stare at them. She then remembered. She was sick and she wasn’t getting better. From that day on, she didn’t leave the hospital room. The hospital in which she stayed eventually became one that only helped people with the illness. They would monitor the patients and occasionally run tests to try yet again to find a cure.

            “Can I go outside?” she asked one day. 

            “You’re much too weak,” her mom had replied, a sympathetic look on her face. “What if you go out there and get sick? You heard the doctors; your immune system is already weak.” She only nodded in response. 

            I hadn’t gotten my hopes up anyway. She tried to tell herself that night. But she couldn’t stop tears from rolling across her face as she lay down on the bed. She pretended it was rain. She imagined that she was playing outside in the rain like she used to. The tears continued to fall from her face. She imagined herself raising her face to the dark, gray sky. And she watched the rain fall. That was the first of many times that she cried herself to sleep.

            The patients with this sickness never lasted long. Usually they lasted only a couple months at the most. But she was different. It was her third year in the hospital. While other patients’ strength rapidly decreased, her strength was a steadier decline. Until recently, that is. 

            “Hopefully, you’ll be able to live for many more years,” her mother said.

            “You’ll get better,” Jack said, rather loudly. She didn’t respond. She didn’t want to lie. She could tell that she didn’t have much time left. But she hadn’t told her family that. She didn’t want them to worry. She hoped that they would spend their time together like they had for the past three years. 

            When I die, I hope that they won’t be too sad. She thought to herself. At first, when she realized she was going to die, the girl had refused to accept it. After that, she’d felt so many different emotions. She’d felt fear, despair, and helplessness. For days, she couldn’t stop shaking in fear. But she had come to terms with her fate. 

            “Why don’t we go down to the gift store and get you something to eat?” a voice said. A female voice. She’d known who the woman was a minute ago but now show couldn’t remember. Who was she? Her brow furred in concentration. She had to remember. The woman noticed her facial expression and gave the girl a sad smile. “I’m your mother.” She’d said that statement many times over the past three years. She’d had to say it a lot more often recently.

            “Oh,” she said. She didn’t remember the woman, but she pretended to. “Thank you, I’d appreciate something to eat.” The woman walked out of the room with a man and two children. Maybe they were her family too. She put a hand over her heart. It was beating slowly. It was getting much too weak. She turned and faced the window. It was small and didn’t have the best view, but she was lucky to have it. Then she remembered something. 

            A bang and a flash of color. Then another and another. Fireworks, she’d seen fireworks last night. She’d watched them for hours last night, not falling asleep. She wanted to remember them, the fireworks. But she’d forgotten them, like she did with everything important. Fireworks had short lives. They rose up to the sky and then died. 

            Almost like me. She thought to herself. I wish I could see the fireworks again. But I know that I won’t be able to. 

            She was a lone firework, who had risen up for so long, much longer than the others. But, like a firework, she couldn’t last forever. She had burned brightly, but her color had faded. The firework could just barely illuminate the sky around it. The firework fizzled out and there was only darkness.