Picture Perfect

1. Then

Damiano Blackwell looked exactly like his picture and I don't.

I had always read the newspaper which is how I first discovered Damiano Blackwell. The black and white photo captured his smile perfectly and fit structure. He was to inherit the hospital chains his family funds, the title read. From there I read every article about him, downloaded every picture and printed every interview that had been published about the mysteries Damiano Blackwell.

I was immediately absorbed into his picture perfect persona. Everything about Damiano was perfect. His face, body, wealth and especially health.

Let me put this plainly for you, I'm dying.

Treatment for this mysterious illness hasn't been as helpful as the doctors had wished. The sleeping sickness. I can fall into comas at any time my body wishes for short and even long periods of time. No explanation therefore no proper cure.

My parents turned to natural remedies but once I had been in a week long coma they turned to science. Eventually I was transferred to Saint Graces Hospital aka Damiano Blackwell's family's hospital that rested in the midst of the busy city. The story goes Damiano's grandfather was sick and was visited by a Mystery Saint, then cured of all illnesses by the grace of the Saint.

Frank Blackwell, the current owner, at Saint Graces heard of my mysterious illness and recommended that I'd be transmitted. He believed if his dad's mysterious illness could be cured so could mine. Plus Frank remarked the research that be done on me, the experiments and new concoctions of medicines would be groundbreaking. More publicity, more money.

I didn't mind be hooked up to wires at first. It was a win, win. Corporate could do whatever they please, and I could be cured. It was until my doctor told me that if I would fall into another coma the possibility of me not waking up was a great chance. Fear settled into my bones, and flowed through my veins.

Suddenly it was as if I was already dead. I was treated as a lost cause, there's no point when I'm already half in a grave, right?

I even signed some resuscitation papers and constructed a will. My family and friends said goodbye to me each time before I fell asleep, not knowing if I'd wake up or not. My enemy was sleep.

Get well cards were replaced with goodbye cards. My favourite plants to liven up my hospital room were replaced with dainty flowers. I cursed them. I hated flowers because they easily died. Reminding them of me.

One night when I refused to sleep or rest, I broke down, throwing the potted flowers across the room and shattering them to the dirty ground. In a complete rage I destroyed everything, just as everything destroyed me.

I requested only cacti the next day. They lasted longer and died less, only needing a single drop of water to survive. I was in search what was my equivalent to the water, what would make me survive.

I drowned in sorrow in the meantime. I mourned myself. Watched my parents detach themselves from me. They thought that would ease their pain, but what of mine?

I didn't want to be stuck in a clean, white hospital whilst slipping through reality, losing my mind in the process. I wanted to live, explore the world and more.

That's when I requested more and more articles of newspapers. If I couldn't live than I would do so vicariously through newspaper stories. From world news to entertainment, I experienced the world through words on paper. I went across the world from reading and experienced fame and wealth through the entertainment section.

I read more and more filling the room with stacks of newspapers. I indulged myself and my I found my coping mechanism. I mean it was a great distraction, less panic attacks replaced with distraction.