WIRES

PROLOGUE

NOW

IN the hospital bed's thin crisp sheets lie everyone's future.

If that person is lucky, the bed doesn't mean anything just yet. They have more time left on their hands, more things to accomplish. Their legs are strong enough to carry them home, their arms have enough strength to hug the ones they love. Their lungs can work on their own, they're able to breathe.

The others are left in the dark, and the only thing saving them from their inevitable death are machines. And slowly, life slips away from them. The only thing you can do is watch them hopelessly.

There was nothing left for them, except the end.

I envy people who can breathe without any thought. I want to be as innocent as they are. I want to be able to take it all for granted again.

At moments, it felt like all air was suddenly taken from me. As if my lungs had suddenly disappeared. My muscles would strain, my body starving of oxygen. I would cough and cough until I couldn't move anymore.

I spent a ton of my last days in the 'actual world' lying on the couch staring out the window. Luckily I was on break from work, so it wasn't like I had anything to attend to. She had no idea what I was going through since she was too busy with everything to notice. She was under the illusion that I was being productive; thus being the reason I was so tired whenever she arrived home.

I passed up every opportunity to leave my house. I wrapped myself in blankets and binged shows, the sharp pain in my chest gradually growing within every hour. I got sicker and sicker, a fever soon accompanying me, which left me in a paralyzed state. I didn't have any energy to reach for the remote, no energy to get food or drinks.

No one knew I was like this. I never told anyone because that'd be admitting something was wrong with me. That I was too weak to mend for myself.

Weak. That word was embedded in my mind, haunting all my thoughts. I wanted people to believe I was strong.

I was many things. Dishonest, arrogant, selfish - sure.

But I was not weak.

When she discovered that I was sick, she didn't take it well. I still remember her angry tone when she found me on the couch shaking. With my remaining strength, I could barely sit myself up to look her in the eyes. I used everything left to find her face, hoping I could study her reaction since my ears weren't working properly. Her expression, the tears running down her face, her eyes bloodshot red. She ran over wrapping her hands around me, I didn't even have enough energy to share a cry with her.

She took me to the doctor, they put me under a few tests. With the state I was in, it was announced I had to be hospitalized until I got better.

They lied.

I'm never getting better.

As I lie under the thin blankets of the hospital bed, I know one thing's for sure. The doctors know it. And I could tell everyone who's been visiting me knows it too.

She knows it. Every time she sees me, I notice how each embrace is frailer than the last. She doesn't have that same glint of hope she used to always carry. After years of being with her, I know something is lingering in her mind, which we both dare not to mention.

I'm dying soon.

For some reason, it didn't click when I saw the doctors' worried expressions after seeing how I was now, compared to when I started. It didn't click when I saw the hopeless faces of my friends. It didn't click when I yearned for sleep more than I already did, how I didn't have any energy to do anything but breathe.

It seemed to hit me the minute I realized she had stopped talking about the future.

She'd constantly reassure me that one day, we'd walk out of this building together. My lungs would work all by themselves and we could resume back to our normal lives. We could do all the little things I yearned for. Like going back to the old lake we used to always hang out at. Or pull pranks on people and spend time with our friends. Whatever it was, it'd be normal.

But when she stopped talking about these events was when I stopped believing in the future. In my future. Because it's obvious the rest of mine is going to be spent on this hospital bed.

I spend hours on end staring at the ceiling in front of me, different thoughts pour into my mind. I'm dying soon, it isn't as if anything matters.

In the hospital bed's thin crisp sheets lies everyone's future.

If that person is lucky, the bed doesn't mean anything. They have more time left on their hands, more things to accomplish. Their legs are strong enough to carry them home, their arms have enough strength to hug the ones they love. Their lungs can work on their own, they're able to breathe.

The others are left in the dark, and the only thing saving them from their inevitable death are machines. And slowly, life slips away from them. The only thing you can do is watch them hopelessly. There's nothing left for them except the end.

I'm not one of the lucky ones.

I'm dying soon. I knew the minute she stopped talking about the future to me that I wasn't going to last any longer.

The only thing I'm left with is my mind. So I let my thoughts wander around in my head.

I think about what I'd be doing right now if I wasn't stuck here. I think about what goes on outside of this building. I think about all my friends. I think about her. How her grin seemed to make even the saddest soul smile, how in everything she did, she accomplished it with great joy.

But even with all these different thoughts buzzing through my head, one catches my attention. And once I give it some awareness, it never seems to go away.

The past plays a significant role in how everyone acts. Your personality is based on it — the lessons you've learned from before, the people you've talked to, it all builds up to who you are.

And right now, I can't stop thinking about before.

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