Two months have passed. I can't feel my legs anymore. My eyes are blurred, and my ears can hardly hear anything. There is only a steady beeping and the hum of the machinery, but it's only a faint copy of the electricity in the fence.

There is a new sound, low and rhythmic. I manage to turn my head slightly, and I see my dad. His smile is tender, and I want to smile back, but I can't. After a few seconds I realize why I couldn't smile—there's something malicious in his smile, and desperation in his eyes. "Don't worry," he says to me. "You'll be able to rest peacefully soon."

It takes me a minute for me to register his words. What? What do you mean? And then I get it. I try to talk, but all my strength has left me. No! I want to yell at him. Please don't! He's the only one I love; please don't take him away from me.

But before I can gather up the strength, he leaves the room. I feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness of the hospital, and when the footsteps fade, I let my tears come.

*****************************************************************************************************

A week later, my body is almost entirely broken. My eyes see nothing but black, fuzzy objects, my limbs can't move anymore, and my ears feel like there's something muffling them. My throat feels constricted, and I never want to eat.

I think back to our final day. I shouldn't have pretended to be strong. Right now, when all my light is depleted, I only want to see you one more time. Just once. I only want one more day!

The flower is dying. It's been dying, but its death has been accelerated by the lack of light. No flower can live without sunlight, but only the prettiest one has been depleted of light.

So my wish is this: To end up wherever he is. If there is God, then I will risk the few things I have to have my wish granted. And I will never let him go.