He lay alone in the darkness of the hospital. The quiet interrupted by the
racking coughs that exploded from his burning chest and lungs.
Paul wanted to cry. Only days ago he'd been well enough to walk around, to eat, and to at least look healthy. But now, now he didn't have enough strength even to lift his head from his pillow.
He could barely breath, his lungs refused to accept air, instead rebelling and shaking him forcefully as dry coughs once more broke the silence. He was terribly cold – cold and hot – shivering in the sweat that drenched his entire body.
He'd been fighting the disease for months, nearly a whole year now, in and out of the hospital as the disease came and went in stages.
It had been dormant for an entire month – the doctors had proclaimed him almost completely well – and then it came back, full force. For two days, Paul slipped in and out of consciousness.
Strange and terrifying dreams haunted him in his sleep, but he was stubborn – and afraid to die. He wouldn't stop fighting.
His chest burned with agony as coughs continued to overtake him. His entire body quivered as he shook with cold. He didn't want to die – he wasn't ready.
Thoughts of letting go came unbidden to his mind. The pain was overwhelming. He wanted it to stop, but he didn't want to die. He held on.
The coughing got worse, he could taste blood in his mouth as his body rattled with each upheaval. Then, for a moment, it stopped. Paul took a slow breath – slow and easy.
And then, he heard it: a soft, steady ringing, like a small bell. He looked around. A tiny girl stood before him ringing a small hand chime. The sound had a haunting echo.
When the girl realized she had been seen, the ringing stopped. Her dark, sunken eyes lit up for a moment in a sweet smile.
"Come with me."
Suddenly, Paul understood. He shook his head, no – he wasn't ready. He didn't want to die.
Once more, the bell began to ring. It was deliberate, almost demanding. He could feel the coughing starting to rise in his chest. The girl looked up at him innocently.
"Come with me Paul."
The bell continued to ring insistently. He held on – he wasn't willing to give up after so much. Suddenly, his lungs tightened, he couldn't breathe at all.
He tried to inhale, and a new burst of coughing exploded from his lungs. With the coughing came blood.
Blood that filled his mouth and throat and spurted vehemently out as the coughing continued. He was dizzy, and everything was going cold – cold and numb.
The blood from his lungs crept back into his throat, choking him, the coughing worsened. He couldn't breath. He was either suffocating, or drowning – but he wasn't sure which one.
Consciousness was creeping from him. He struggled to stay awake, fought to live, but he was too weak.
Darkness overtook him. The last thing he saw was the little girl. She was no longer smiling – instead she looked disappointed. She pointed a small finger and shook it at him accusingly.
"You should have let go the first time, Paul! You shouldn't have fought – now you have to stay here. You shouldn't have fought."
Paul wanted to cry. Only days ago he'd been well enough to walk around, to eat, and to at least look healthy. But now, now he didn't have enough strength even to lift his head from his pillow.
He could barely breath, his lungs refused to accept air, instead rebelling and shaking him forcefully as dry coughs once more broke the silence. He was terribly cold – cold and hot – shivering in the sweat that drenched his entire body.
He'd been fighting the disease for months, nearly a whole year now, in and out of the hospital as the disease came and went in stages.
It had been dormant for an entire month – the doctors had proclaimed him almost completely well – and then it came back, full force. For two days, Paul slipped in and out of consciousness.
Strange and terrifying dreams haunted him in his sleep, but he was stubborn – and afraid to die. He wouldn't stop fighting.
His chest burned with agony as coughs continued to overtake him. His entire body quivered as he shook with cold. He didn't want to die – he wasn't ready.
Thoughts of letting go came unbidden to his mind. The pain was overwhelming. He wanted it to stop, but he didn't want to die. He held on.
The coughing got worse, he could taste blood in his mouth as his body rattled with each upheaval. Then, for a moment, it stopped. Paul took a slow breath – slow and easy.
And then, he heard it: a soft, steady ringing, like a small bell. He looked around. A tiny girl stood before him ringing a small hand chime. The sound had a haunting echo.
When the girl realized she had been seen, the ringing stopped. Her dark, sunken eyes lit up for a moment in a sweet smile.
"Come with me."
Suddenly, Paul understood. He shook his head, no – he wasn't ready. He didn't want to die.
Once more, the bell began to ring. It was deliberate, almost demanding. He could feel the coughing starting to rise in his chest. The girl looked up at him innocently.
"Come with me Paul."
The bell continued to ring insistently. He held on – he wasn't willing to give up after so much. Suddenly, his lungs tightened, he couldn't breathe at all.
He tried to inhale, and a new burst of coughing exploded from his lungs. With the coughing came blood.
Blood that filled his mouth and throat and spurted vehemently out as the coughing continued. He was dizzy, and everything was going cold – cold and numb.
The blood from his lungs crept back into his throat, choking him, the coughing worsened. He couldn't breath. He was either suffocating, or drowning – but he wasn't sure which one.
Consciousness was creeping from him. He struggled to stay awake, fought to live, but he was too weak.
Darkness overtook him. The last thing he saw was the little girl. She was no longer smiling – instead she looked disappointed. She pointed a small finger and shook it at him accusingly.
"You should have let go the first time, Paul! You shouldn't have fought – now you have to stay here. You shouldn't have fought."