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I wasn't asleep, but I wasn't awake. In the middle between unconscious and conscious, or perhaps life and dead.
I wasn't dead, though I wouldn't mind finding out I was. How do you know when you're dead? Can you feel in your bones? Does it have a feeling?
A taste?
A scent?
Perhaps a sight?
Or do you find out when everyone else does. Watching someone gasp over you as they come to find out you're no longer breathing. Blood is no longer pumping through your veins and you're just a lifeless being.
And then you are shocked yourself, wondering i can't be dead, i'm right here but maybe that's actually how that works. Any second now someone will come through that door, instantly seeing the blood soaked sheets and watch as my last breath escapes my turning-blue lips.
I wait, and I wait and wait some more. Hoping that i'll soon get the news that I've passed. Hoping that i'll never have to deal with life ever again. No one ever walks in though, my lingering question still floating in the air.
Or maybe time has slowed down, maybe the after life is just being stuck in the exact moment you died in. Forever.
But the stinging in hand, the tears that still flow from my eyes and my shaky breaths indicate that I am still alive. Though, at a time like this, I don't know if that's a good thing.
I start to slow down my breaths, wincing a few times as I feel the stinging in my hand. The warmness of my blood that seeps out the cuts; the streams of thick liquid covering my hand and arm.
But I feel paralyzed. I can't move my body to get up. I can't find the will to lift my legs off of the bed and go find a nurse and ask for help. Telling them I did something that I more than regret and have them fix it before it's too late.
But I don't, I don't feel the need too. So I sit there, in the darkness of night and blurred vision due to my still-rapid tears.
And each breath I let out, I hope it's my last. Cursing under my breath when I realize the one I hoped to be the last, isn't the last. Finally, I shut my eyes, squinting the tears away as I let myself cry hard. Accepting that it just won't go away.
Time begins to go by faster, my uninjured arm bringing itself around my chest to hold myself tightly. Me, trying to keep my cries low and shushed.
And for a second I start to panic, wondering if any of the nurses will ever come in and notice what I've done and help me. Just like clockwork, seconds later my door opens quietly, slowly.
My breath catches, awaiting the gasp and yelling for help but that's not what i'm greeted with. Instead the door shuts as quickly as it opened. Then I hear someone come towards me quick.
"What did you do?" he whispers. A male, oh-so-familiar voice. The excitement inside of me, not showing through my dull expression. It being suppressed with pain and numbness.
My head lifelessly falls to face his, him now at his knees at the side of my bed. His eyes full of concern as they begin to tear up, his eyebrows lowering. "Finn," I croak out.
"Millie, what did you do?" he cries out. He looks at the arm that is being held out on top of the bed, his face showing of pain and worry. "Millie, what did you do?" he asks again, his tone quiet and higher pitched.
