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I scan the view. On my left is the door to Sam's room. It is closed right now. I guess privacy was the only thing this hospital could give us. Behind Sam's bed is panel full of diagrams and monitors, from which I can distinguish the steady beating of Sam's heart. The thought of it stopping soon makes my own heart sink. 

To the right of me is a small bedside table, which only rooms for long stay patients have. Three months already since this merry go round of hell started. Who would've said that Sam's constant coughing was something serious? Jolly bitter innocence of mine... The doctors said that having diagnosed this before wouldn't have changed anything, but that doesn't stop me from blaming myself.

For instance, I can recall perfectly the day Sam had the first incident due to the illness. We had been walking to our next class together – merely by chance as we'd only happened to bump into each other. 

"So," Sam was saying, "How's the week treating you, Alex?"

At the time I'd been half surprised, half pleased that Sam remembered my name. It was like, the third time we talked? Furthermore, to put it lightly, I was a bit shy, and tended to be alone for the main part of my days. 

"Fine, I guess," I answered "But you can tell the term is ending, all I'm up to recently is studying."

"Me too!" Sam exclaimed "Test after test, without a minute to breathe. Can't them teachers relax it a bit?"

"I doubt that, because they would've already. And now we have history – the industrial revolution. Can't really say I'm flaky on this one; I love the subject." I continued.

"You like history too?" Sam replied wide-eyed. "I thought I was alone into this!"

"Oh my god, that's great!" I answered a bit too cheerfully. Sam didn't seem to notice that though.

"Yeah. Personally, I love the Victorian Era, because-" And then Sam started to cough uncontrollably, and it wasn't like when you choke with something. On and on, to the point of Sam bending over. I just stood there, looking frantically, clueless on what to do. I reached out to ask if everything was OK, but that would be pointless. I looked wildly around, for something or someone who could tell me what to do or help me in some way. And Sam just kept coughing. To my horror, blood was coming out each time, and it was then that my paralysis broke. 

"Wait there, don't move, I'll go fetch the nurse" I told Sam as confidently as I could.

And I ran. I ran like I had never in my life along the corridors, almost toppling over everyone and slipping on each corner. I busted through the infirmary door and sentenced:

"Sam from 9th grade's choking. It doesn't look normal."

Soon a committee of nurses, curious students and the odd teacher were making our way back to the place. "But hurry up you idiots! What part of someone is choking don't you understand?" I'd thought. To my relief, I suppose? Sam was still there. Still coughing though the rate and violence had seemingly diminished. Only then I allowed myself to breathe – Sam was going to be OK.

Later, the nurses had asked Sam a few questions, and eventually reached the conclusion that all it was was an untreated sore throat. We'd both believed that too; oh, if only it had been that. Sam as always just waved it off positively, and though it wasn't enough to take the frown off my face, I just blindly trusted Sam and the nurses. «It was nothing. Just a shock. Everything's OK.» I'd repeat to myself.

I hate myself for that. Objectively all of us are equally to blame for not being realistic and turning a blind eye to the incident, but I guess it's just in me to blame myself for things I'm responsible about.

Which leaves me on the sad thought that I will blame myself for Sam's death forever.