Dedicated to roadtrips for the beautiful cover.

"I close my eyes and I see your face. If home's where my heart is, then I'm out of place."  ~Homesick, MercyMe~

  ♡  

HEROES don't die.

Their bodies may rot and decay. Their life force may dwindle. They may even take their last breath. But even after life leaves their body, they don't die. Their legacy lives forever.

Almost dying taught me that.

♡

[Monday, April 10, 2017]

The first time I wake from medicated sleep, darkness clouds my mind. A melange of sounds and sensations assault my senses. A sharp pain in my chest squeezes my heart like a crown of thorns. A quiet buzz hums by my ear along with the murmur of someone who mentions "brain damage" and "I'm sorry." My head aches, and I find myself shutting my eyes to still my dizzy vision.

The sweet allure of sleep promises me peace. Her screams keep me awake.

My last visit to the hospital was at the tender age of six. I didn't know my dad was dying. I couldn't understand. I vaguely remember pale blue walls, white linen, and the gentle eyes of doctors trafficking between the room. The clearest part of my memory was the long beep as he flatlined and the lingering scent of disinfectant.

Her cries were the same then, too. Heart-wrenching wails followed by quiet sobs.

I question if I'm alive. If I'm the reason she is crying. My eyes wander to the heart monitor. The lines go up and down steadily.

I'm alive. If not me, then who—

All I remember is thinking his name and hearing my quickening heart rate before I let the darkness consume me.

The second time I wake up, the room is oddly quiet. I hear the machines running, and I see a nurse nearby, switching my bag of IV.

Is this what dying looks like? Pale walls. White linen. Disinfectant. White coats and blue gloves.

The machines whizz steadily and tubes clog my throat and chest. My eyes slide down to the dressing covering my chest. Wires are also connected to the monitor as a nurse watches my heart rate. An IV needle pierces my flesh. I hate needles.

I pick up the faintest sound of ragged breaths. Mom is still crying. I can hear her ragged breath. I can hear the pain in her voice as she whispers, "My baby! My baby!"

Even though I'm the one with the tubes in my throat and chest, with wires attached to a heart monitor, and a needle stuck in my veins, I know she is not crying about me.

I am barely conscious, yet my head seems to understand the loss more than my heart.

I want to reach out and touch her. I want to tell her I'm fine. I'm alive.

Something more than the constricting tubes stops me.

♡

[Wednesday, April 12, 2017]

His deformed figure frequents my dreams. His shadowy apparition twists and turns, morphing into mangled limbs, burning flesh, and bloodied lips. The vulgar stench of death permeates and the feeling of bile rising wrenches me from my sleep - as it has been for the last few days.

My forehead is slick with sweat. The thin, blue hospital gown clings to my sticky skin. My fingers clench the sheets: deep bronze against stark white.

The effects of the medication have worn off, the tubes are gone, and the doctors said I'm free to go after a good night's sleep. Mom's still crying.

She sits curled up on the hard visitor's chair. Her usually sleek bun is undone and squashed against the night table. She looks uncomfortable. She whimpers in her sleep as rouge tears run down her red cheeks. I want to wake her from her nightmares, but I know the real nightmare is our reality. So I let her sleep.

I peel the covers off my body, pivot, and slip my feet into my slippers. A fresh set of clothes lay on the night table. Next to it is a slightly crumpled newspaper dated April 10th 2017.

I shimmy out of the gown. Then, I step into dark jeans and carefully pull a white tee over my torso.

I turn to spread out the crumpled sheets when the front page headline of the newspaper captures my attention. It reads: OFF-DUTY OFFICER DIES SAVING BROTHER. I pick it up. Underneath the headline is a photo of him in uniform with a huge grin, leaning toward the camera.

My lips form the syllables of his name. Ethan.

Guilt claws at my conscious. He did not deserve to die. I did. Seeing my brother's happy expression only makes the wound more real. How marvellous is the written word that holds the power to cement a reality; to immortalize and memorialize a person into history.

The world will not let me forget this pain. His death is my sin. My life is my punishment.

I rip the front page off. After I place the newspaper back on the table, I fold the front page and stuff it in my pocket.

There is no forgiveness in death.