Ungrateful - Short Story *TW*

Ungrateful

Being forced into this world is difficult enough. We suffer from the selfishness of our parents who chose to have us. They never expect to be cursed with children who seem to be so out of place.

Today is my last day in this world. I'm hoping there won't be anymore existence after this. If there is, it's not fair. It's torture.

My parents are asleep at my bedside. My father is laying on a pullout couch facing away from me, a thin white sheet covering him. He's still wearing his brown leather shoes, the ones he wears to work everyday. My mother is draped over my bed, half seated in a folding chair. She's been like this every night.

I'm a prisoner in this body now. I was hospitalized for stepping out into traffic one day. I don't recall how it happened or what lead me to it, but that is what I overheard. I have pins drilled into both shattered legs. Half my skull is gone and my brain is swelling. My shell is unconscious and has been since the accident, but my soul is awake. Through my half lidded eyes, I can see everything, hear everything. Feel everything. Every cut and hole drilled into me I felt in detail.

I'm awake, someone... Please... Stop...

I keep asking myself if this is my punishment. God has decided this is the way to punish the ungrateful. I didn't know if it would ever end. Today, though, I can tell. The pain is starting to go away and I'm happy.

An alarm starts going off. It's my oxygen levels. They're a little low. This doesn't wake my parents. I'm starting to get a little light headed. I'm floating around, spinning a little. I hold my breath. It feels good.

My mom starts to move, slowly wakening to the hymn of the monitor. She reaches over and touches my face, her palms warming my damp cheeks. She says my name a couple times. My face starts tingling. My head is pounding.

Another alarm goes off, this time much louder. It startles my mom and she gets to her feet quickly. She's shaking me. It's okay, it doesn't hurt that much. Nurses rush in, one wheels in a big red cart. They're touching me, but I can't feel their hands. They keep calling my name over and over again and suddenly that name doesn't sound right. It doesn't suit me.

I'm praying they'll stop trying so hard to keep me alive. It's not like I'll have a life if I make it.

A nurse rolls up his sleeves and gloves his hands. He shocks me back to life.

He pats my arm and calls me a fighter.

One of my doctors comes in. They decide to put me on a ventilator so I don't stop breathing again.

No, please no. It's going to hurt. God, it hurts.

Another nurse wheels in a procedure cart. They're saying words I don't know. I had been intubated before, but they knocked me out first. I'm not asleep, please... Kill me...

Oh God, they're forcing it down my throat. I start gagging.

The doctor stops. She mumbles something under her breath, straightens her posture and tries again. I begin to throw up. Part of my feeding tube is dangling out of my mouth. My hair is soaked in bile and formula.

They quickly sit me up, but my body is still limp. My eyes are watering, I can barely see a thing now. Everyone around me is confused. My parents can hear the commotion from the hallway.

Someone disconnects the feeding tube from its pump and pulls it from my nose. I gag once more and my eyes finally open. I can blink! I blink again and again. Someone help me!

I stretch my hand out and grab someone. I'm sinking my nails into their arm and they retract quickly. I can move!

My lips are cracked and my tongue is dry, but I spoke the word 'Stop' in a soft whisper, though I couldn't manage the 'p'. I'm shaking, my voice quivering. It's so exhausting.

More people are piling in the room, placing stickers under my gown, their cold hands grazing my skin. They're trying to talk to me while shining lights into my eyes.

"Do you know where you are? Do you know your name?"

I answer everything correctly, though it's hard to complete a sentence. I tell them I've been awake this whole time. That I felt all the pain. Then I told them I wanted to live and that I was sorry to my parents and to myself.

A nurse wipes my face with a washcloth and I thank her. I'm so appreciative of them for taking care of person who was ungrateful to be alive. I tell them I'll work hard to get better soon so their efforts were not in vain.

I smile. I feel good. My heart is full and heavy.

My parents loved me. My friends loved me.

I don't feel ungrateful anymore.

Then, I died. And they couldn't bring me back.