short stories

number four

"Hold on, miss, hold on!" The man in the blue scrubs is looking worried at me.

"We're losing her!" they're running faster, I wonder who they are losing. Is she important?

 "Faster!" I want to look around, maybe I can find the girl they're worried about. She could be a princess or a celebrity or something, that would be awesome. I slowly turn my head, that hurts. It hurts a lot.

"Don't move, sweetheart, it's all going to be alright." I feel a soft pressure on my cheek, I turn my head again, slower this time. It's a hand, the hand of a brown-skinned woman. I stare at her, she is quite pretty. Her long black hair is in a thousand tiny little braids and those braids are in a ponytail. I try to raise my hand so I can touch it. But my hand won't work.

"Gah," I moan slightly. Why can't I talk? This is really embarrassing.

"It's okay sweetheart, don't worry. Don't try to move," the pretty woman is talking again. She is stroking my hair now. I wonder how she is both doing that and still running with the other guys. Why are they running? Am I running too? I look down at my feet, then I realize that my feet aren't under me. I am in a horizontal position then, why didn't I know that? How could I not have noticed that?

"Left! Everybody out of the way! We're taking the first room on the right!" We turn left at the man's voice, after that immediately in the first room. This room is white, incredibly white. It nearly hurts my eyes. There are machines everywhere, monitors and blinding white lights. In the middle there is an empty space, they roll me that way. Roll? Oh, I am probably on one of those beds with wheels. What are they called? I don't know. Why not?

"Give her some painkillers! This is going to hurt!" Wait, what is? Should I be worried? Are they all worried about me? Am I the princess? I don't know anymore.

"Alright, sweetheart, it's all going to be okay, trust me," the pretty woman is stroking my hair again, I focus on her face. That way I won't have to look at the needle that is penetrating my skin at the moment. Her face is completely spotless, she doesn't have freckles or acne or something. There are slight wrinkles by her eyes, from laughing I think. I wonder if she is married?

"Give me some tweezers!" I feel something cold on my stomach, I try to see what it is. It hurts, but finally, I can see it. They cut my shirt open, there are hands all over my stomach. Or what was left of my stomach, all I see is red. There is blood everywhere, the white bed that I'm lying on is also turning red. Why am I bleeding?

"Is she going to make it?" She is worried for me, that's so nice of her. But ... I don't think I know her. Is she always this nice? She could be, she looks like a nice person.

"No, I don't think so." Those words make me feel cold, they make me feel lonely and scared. Because I know now that they are talking about me, there's no one else they could be talking about. And this man thinks that I'm not going to make it.

"Then why are we still working on her?" This one was new, it sounded like a woman, a very bitter one. I, however, couldn't see them, so I've got no idea. I do dislike her, the way she said made it sound like she hates me, but we've never met. At least, I think that we've never met, I don't actually know that. Why do I not know anything?

"She was a registered organ donor, her parents have already agreed to it. They know she is not going to make it, we're just trying to get her organs out and then she will die." He just stated that, like it was a well-known fact. Like it didn't matter. It's as if he forgot that they are talking about a real human being. That they are talking about me and that I am right here. 

"But that's no

t how it is supposed to be. We're supposed to try to save her and only after she died, give her organs to someone else!" Thank you, pretty lady, you have a heart. Congratulations! Something in me just thinks that it won't work, that I am going to die.

"Why should we? Her parents have given permission and given that she is a minor, well ...  they've got the last word." But that is bullshit! What about my opinion? And what kind of parents are they, that they are going to let me die? 

"But it's wrong! Morally, I mean, we're doctors! We swore an oath that we would try to save everyone, why aren't we?" Whooo! You go, girl, you are saving lives right now. More importantly, you're saving my life!

"She tried to kill herself, Rebekkah! She didn't want to live, anyways!" No, that's not true. That is impossible! I do want to live..., right?

Slowly the memories start trickling in. I don't want to remember, I never wanted to remember them. Suddenly I feel the pain again, not my physical pain, but the mental pain, the emotional pain. The pain from being insulted time and time again. The pain from not belonging.

Right then I decide that my opinion does matter, my opinion is that they are right. I should let go, so that is what I do. I let go. And slowly...

Very slowly ...

Everything ...

is...

fading...

away...

A/N once again don't steal. This one took a while to write, so I hope you like it.