There are ways of dying that do not end with a funeral. Types of deaths you can't see, feel or smell. Because death, just like love, has a mind of its own and some things can't be prevented.
What started as an innocent high school quest in search o...
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Life has a sick sense of humor.
That's something I've known for a long time. Back when I was the one that survived while Adam didn't in that life-altering car crash three years ago. I got another proof, later on, when I couldn't bear the guilt of being alive and seeing everyone wish –even though they'd never admit that in front of me, out loud— that if it really had to be one of us that didn't see it through to another day, it should've been me, not him. I couldn't blame them though, I wish that's how it was, too, which is why – ever since that point forward— I didn't really care how much was at stake, how much I hazarded, because ultimately, I didn't care what would happen to me.
It was hard to want to live when you felt like no one else really wanted you to.
Over time, with all the failed attempts at destroying myself with whatever was available at my hand's reach, I slowly became a joke –a cruel reminder that no matter what I did, the life in me was stronger than I gave myself credit for and somehow, for some reason, the universe or the higher power or whatever is out there, would keep me here—keep me alive. Sometimes with much greater consequences but alive nonetheless.
But this is what I've learnt in the last two weeks: the joke's always on me and it might never stop. Life, for some reason, likes making fun of me and I might never escape.
That's how waking up from a coma felt like. Six months after my second car accident that happened back at the end of October.
A couple broken ribs, fractured neck. And the cherry on top – basilar skull fracture – the most serious type of skull fracture, involving a break in the bone at the base of the skull, all thanks to being a moron and driving under the influence, high out of my fucking mind on candy, after getting into a fight with Timothy over the phone because I wanted to kick the whole ordeal with the pathetic Shameless Virginity Games to the curb and he wasn't having it.
It could've been worse. That's what the doctors have told me. I was unbelievably lucky to be here and even luckier to not have managed to kill anyone else in the process.
Even though seeing the terrific pictures of myself with bruises around my eyes and clear fluid draining from my nose (due to a tear in part of the covering of the brain as the doctors have explained to me once I woke up from the coma and managed to calm down enough to listen and accept the reality of it) when they first brought me in in critical condition and sent me down the endless surgery lane to keep me alive, didn't make me feel like it could've been worse.
But of course, it could have.
It took my body six months to recover, to be able to function again, to get the brain-swelling to subdue, the neck and ribs to heal and I still wasn't entirely through just yet but they've decided that it was time to try to wake me up so they've been giving me Stillnox through the IV to make it happen.
