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Description
I was walking down the hallway in the ICU---alone, this time.  It looked familiar.  The nurses all smiled and waved and asked me how I was.  I answered with a fake smile and a fake answer.  What was I supposed to say? Whichever answer I would give wouldn't bring them satisfaction, anyhow.  It had been exactly two weeks and four days since I had been in there and now it was for a different reason.  I'm still the same person sick as usual but controlled with drugs.  Nothing has really changed since the last time, but so did everything.

I went to a Theatre Festival as a requirement for my theatre class.  I came out glad it was over.  It was fun at first, getting to watch different musicals and other productions.  I live for that kind of stuff, but the whole time I felt horrible.  I wanted to be up there, performing----dancing.  But I couldn't.  No, I was sick.  As usual.  Four years, and I thought I was getting over it.  I guess that was a mistake.

I walked out at exactly 2:30.  All I wanted to do was get out of there, but the moment I entered my mom's car I wanted out of there too.  I should've known something was wrong when she got there on time for once.  She spoke only a few words, not even a complete sentence.  But they were the most painful words I have ever heard. No...not the most painful.  But they were up high on the list.

"It got worse."

I cursed her mentally, seeing as I was too coward to do it out loud, for not saying more and for saying too much.  I knew instantly what she was talking about.  It wasn't fair, having to loose her like this.  To that god-awful disease.  No, it wasn't even god-awful.  It was just awful.  There is no god.  That was a recent discovery I made.  Nothing made sense.  The bible certainly didn't make sense, and neither did the existance of any god.

We got to the hospital and I felt like I was trapped in someone else's body.  It wasn't me who was walking, pale as a ghost, shaking miserably, and crying uncontrollably. It couldn't be.  I was the one who always kept a straight face while everyone else broke apart.  Not anymore, when did this happen?

I walked down the familiar hallway.  The scent of anti-bacterial cleaner and IV fluid burned a hole in my nose.  I forced my eyes not to wander to the rooms filled with patients who were most likely not going to leave.  Then, I got to her room.  I gasped when I saw her.  It didn't look right.  She was never that pale, that yellow.  She was always beautifuk and elegant.  Realization struck me that this might be the last time I saw her.  And then the sadness washed over.  Before, I had just been numb.  Unable to feel emotion but very able to show it.  I walked in the room reluctantly.  I was alone and very grateful for that.  I stoked her cheek and rested my hand on top of hers.  She looked like an angel.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes.  She looked past me and smiled.  I could tell she was completely out of it.  I knew that the amount of morphine must've made her out of it.  I had gotten maybe half of what she was getting and I could never stay conscius, sane, call it whatever you want, with it.  I looked over my shoulder, but nothing was there.  A brief glint of hope entered my mind.   A hope that would tell me it was me she saw.  But it wasn't.  She was out of it.  Getting ready to die.  And she saw something.

Description
I was walking down the hallway in the ICU---alone, this time.  It looked familiar.  The nurses all smiled and waved and asked me how I was.  I answered with a fake smile and a fake answer.  What was I supposed to say? Whichever answer I would give wouldn't bring them satisfaction, anyhow.  It had been exactly two weeks and four days since I had been in there and now it was for a different reason.  I'm still the same person sick as usual but controlled with drugs.  Nothing has really changed since the last time, but so did everything.

I went to a Theatre Festival as a requirement for my theatre class.  I came out glad it was over.  It was fun at first, getting to watch different musicals and other productions.  I live for that kind of stuff, but the whole time I felt horrible.  I wanted to be up there, performing----dancing.  But I couldn't.  No, I was sick.  As usual.  Four years, and I thought I was getting over it.  I guess that was a mistake.

I walked out at exactly 2:30.  All I wanted to do was get out of there, but the moment I entered my mom's car I wanted out of there too.  I should've known something was wrong when she got there on time for once.  She spoke only a few words, not even a complete sentence.  But they were the most painful words I have ever heard. No...not the most painful.  But they were up high on the list.

"It got worse."

I cursed her mentally, seeing as I was too coward to do it out loud, for not saying more and for saying too much.  I knew instantly what she was talking about.  It wasn't fair, having to loose her like this.  To that god-awful disease.  No, it wasn't even god-awful.  It was just awful.  There is no god.  That was a recent discovery I made.  Nothing made sense.  The bible certainly didn't make sense, and neither did the existance of any god.

We got to the hospital and I felt like I was trapped in someone else's body.  It wasn't me who was walking, pale as a ghost, shaking miserably, and crying uncontrollably. It couldn't be.  I was the one who always kept a straight face while everyone else broke apart.  Not anymore, when did this happen?

I walked down the familiar hallway.  The scent of anti-bacterial cleaner and IV fluid burned a hole in my nose.  I forced my eyes not to wander to the rooms filled with patients who were most likely not going to leave.  Then, I got to her room.  I gasped when I saw her.  It didn't look right.  She was never that pale, that yellow.  She was always beautifuk and elegant.  Realization struck me that this might be the last time I saw her.  And then the sadness washed over.  Before, I had just been numb.  Unable to feel emotion but very able to show it.  I walked in the room reluctantly.  I was alone and very grateful for that.  I stoked her cheek and rested my hand on top of hers.  She looked like an angel.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes.  She looked past me and smiled.  I could tell she was completely out of it.  I knew that the amount of morphine must've made her out of it.  I had gotten maybe half of what she was getting and I could never stay conscius, sane, call it whatever you want, with it.  I looked over my shoulder, but nothing was there.  A brief glint of hope entered my mind.   A hope that would tell me it was me she saw.  But it wasn't.  She was out of it.  Getting ready to die.  And she saw something.