I spent my entire life doing nothing. Not because I wanted to, but because many people in this world are stingy. After you die, what are you using your body for? That is what I want to know. This horrible bed in the hospital, I tire of seeing these walls that try to be cheerful, not amused with all the tubes in my arms, never really living. The tv shows kids like me running, jumping, being with friends. I am not like them at all. No one is my friend, because I have been stuck in the white building, so white, yet so dark. My parents visit, but they have no idea what it is like to be me, to have no purpose, just a burden to everyone around me. From time to time, another patient stays in my room, limbs wrapped in more white, or tubes, like mine, protruding from them. In the end, they leave, get better and go home to their families, their friends. If I could, I would want a friend that won't leave like everyone else.
Clothed in a dreary hospital gown, trying, like everything else here, to be cheerful, be good, not to worry because everyone leaves the hospital at some point. Everyone but me, that is. Sometimes my mother does my hair, thinking that, because I am a girl, I am like the ones on television, that paint their nails, share secrets, and have things like 'sleepovers'. Honestly, why would you make a game of hitting people with a pillow?
After she leaves, I take out the elastic bands, undo the twisting braids, and go to sleep. But it happens again and again, same routine. Wake up, be given breakfast on a tray, pinching, poking, prodding, being told again and again that there will be a donor soon. Then lunch. I do like it when it is spicy tofu. Hair is pulled in the sake of being 'pretty' and then she leaves, I eat dinner, and more sleep. Meaningless. The doctors bore me. Everything about this place makes me want to be sick. But then, of course, I would be forced to stay even longer.
Many days, I just want to scream at them, their silly chatter, empty promises. There will be a donor soon. I don't. The 'model patient', I hear them call me. It doesn't matter. I only want one thing, to have the ability to really live.
One day, my mother and father came into my room with a big cake. Every year this happens. Telling me 'you will come home next year, we know it.' Liars. Lit candles are on the cake, topped with flickering flames. I like the fire, it is like me. Stays in one place, doesn't do anything important until it dies, blown out, extinguished. Fifteen candles, one for every miserable year spent here. I am surrounded by people, most of them doctors or nurses, their faces smiling down at me, like some sort of experiment. Then comes the singing. "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you!" Why do they say happy? I'm not happy, why do they all feel the need to make me pretend? A flashing knife comes out, plunged into the cake. A moist slice is slid onto a paper plate, plastic fork in my hand, and I have to eat it, to please them, trick them, like they do to me. There will be a donor soon. All too slowly, the staff and my family finish eating.
Now comes the worst part. Boxes, bags, wrapped in annoying paper, with meaningless trinkets inside. Most of the ones from my mother are clothes, for when I leave the hospital. Skirts in bright pink, lacy yellow dresses. Like I would actually wear that stuff, like I am actually going to leave. Stupid hair scrunchy things that will get tangled with loose strands of hair, earrings, like I need more needles stuck in me. Books are my only salvation, to keep me from dying of boredom. Boy wizards, mythical creatures, anything from my wildest dreams in a bit of paper and ink. Finally everyone leaves me in peace, so that I can dive into the world of dwarves, wizards, and a magical ring. Days pass, with the same dull schedule, lightened only by hardcover friends. I do have friends, but not of flesh and blood. My paper pals, they never leave me, and one of them will always suit my mood.
A new patient is wheeled in, but we don't talk. The doctor said she was paralyzed from a blow to the head; she can't even speak. I feel bad, someone like me comes, and we aren't able to communicate. The girl is around my age, at least that's what her face seems like. I can tell she's sad, wide eyes staring up to the ceiling, bandages circling her head. No hair, it got cut off to do an operation. Every time there is a music video on, those eyes full with tears. I think she was a singer before coming here, but got trapped, just as I have been. Her parents never come, but I don't think she minds. I mind, because I wish that hers would come, and mine wouldn't.
The girl left. One night I fell asleep, arms aching with the tubes in them, attached to the IV. She was there, I know, because I told her to sleep well. The next day the bed was empty, like a thief had come in the night and stole her away. The doctor told me that she didn't make it. I'm not stupid, I know what it means. I got left behind again, after all, it's not like I was expecting her to stay. There will be a donor soon. Lies, lies, more lies, that's what human kind is.
More days passed, the television a buzz in my ears as time passed. The news was on one day, with an interesting story. A subway had been lost in the tunnels, which had collapsed on both ends. They had been there for a week before being rescued. All the survivors said it was because of one young man who wanted to be a doctor. I can't remember his name, but he died right as the rescue team came. I guess his life isn't fair, either. He was only a college student, around twenty years old. I can't imagine what he went through, to have given everything up to help them, just to die before seeing that everyone else could live. He got passed by as well. I would have liked to meet him one day.
"We did it!" The doctor yelled, running into my room, causing my parents to stare at him blankly. I bet I know what he'll say, the liar. There will be a donor soon. "Did what?" One of my parents asked. Lies, I know it. "We have a donor for her. Your daughter will get a new heart."
I must be dreaming. This can't be real. I can live, but who died so that i could? "Remember that day on the news, the young man that practically saved all the survivors in that subway accident?" Nodding heads bobbled around. "A survivor said that he signed up to be an organ donor, right before he passed away. It's thanks to him that we can finally do the operation." After all this time waiting, I can live. I have a donor.
Years passed, when I was in the hospital again. A car does a lot of damage, I realize now. But I have no regrets, except for one.
All I want to do now, is to be able to thank him, my organ donor, for letting me live. Even if it was only for a little while, it was because of him.
Arigato gozaimas.