The room reeks of bleach and despair.
Machines pump and hiss,
keeping time with a life slipping through fingers.
The boy lies too small on the bed,
skin like wax, eyes too old for his years.
He stares at the ceiling—
not avoiding her,
just tired of explaining
what she already knows.
Her hands clutch his arm,
hard enough to bruise.
"You do not get to leave me," she says,
voice cracked, words jagged.
"You fight. Do you hear me?
You fight, because I cannot do this without you.
You are all I have left."
Her sobs rattle the walls.
It is not a plea;
it is a command
shouted into a void.
He does not flinch,
does not cry,
just turns to her, slow and deliberate,
like someone carrying too much weight.
His voice is dry, hollow.
"Mom, stop. You know.
You know."
She shakes her head,
her breath coming in short, angry bursts.
"I do not know. You are my son.
You fight. You stay.
I cannot breathe without you.
I will die without you."
She says it like a fact,
like she's trying to hold him hostage
with her own life.
He closes his eyes.
For a moment, the machines are louder than the words,
than the grief.
When he speaks again,
his voice is barely there.
"Do not make me do this.
I am tired, Mom.
So tired."
"Then rest later!" she screams,
spit flying, nails digging into his arm.
"You do not get to quit.
You do not get to leave me here, alone."
His breath comes shallow now,
each one a labour,
each one a theft from whatever is left.
"Fine," he whispers,
turning to her,
meeting her eyes one last time.
"For you, I'll fight."
The machines do not care about promises.
They shriek their final warning.
His chest rises once more—
then stills.
She knows before the silence settles.
The nurses rush in,
pull her back,
hold her down.
But she fights harder than he ever could.
She wails until her throat burns,
until her body gives out.
