twenty one
My mother comes in.
She holds my hand and weeps. I stay still, silent, only breathing with the help of an oxygen machine. I try to wake up, I try to be okay. I try to be fine. Fine because I can be. Fine because I want to be.
"Sarah," she says.
I can imagine the hope on her face. I can also imagine the disappointment of her daughter not waking up. I try not to imagine either.
"I love you," she says. "I love you."
She keeps repeating it, as though I will hear. As though I will listen.
"Come back to me, my baby," she whispers. "My baby."
I try to turn my head, open my eyes. I need to be fine. I may not love her, but I care for her. She needs me.
But I can't try. I'm weak. I deserve to die.
