It has been four years. My Eliza lay in bed immobilized, in a coma. About three years ago, I had become completely obsessed. Determined to find a cure. I've studied so hard, I've started to think I'm going crazy. My thoughts are always cut short and interrupted by others. Almost as if half of me where someone else. Which leads me to another thought; Why Everyone always thinks of insanity as a funny thing? All humor is titled as 'Insanity' or 'Insanely funny'. I wonder if people that have been to asylums ever look at those things and said 'There is nothing funny about true insanity', because those people should know what it's like.
When I see things like that, I can only scoff at how wrong they are. Insanity isn't a thing to be taken lightly, and by now every human should know that. It's not a funny thing when you get right down to it. Sure, you may find it funny if someone is stuck for eternity doing nothing but laughing at them self, or is obsessed with sharp objects, but me… I think it's sad. That isn't the only kind of insanity. There are some who are at a level where they feel they must kill others in order to keep the voices away, there are others who let the voices control them, and others who don't even know the voices are there. There are some who can't control their anger, some who can't control their happiness, some who can't control themselves.
That is my thought on insanity. Maybe I'd become that person, the one who is in the asylum saying insanity isn't funny. But no! I must continue to work on a cure for Eliza.
I think I'm close to a break-though. As I finished the last of the tests, I found my results would most likely be positive. I put the serum in an IV, and I rushed out to my father's car. Since my father had passed away in a most ironic event; The headline reading "Doctor Chokes to Death On Prescribed Pills" , I had inherited everything he had. And that also meant his patents including… Eliza. And it was my solemn duty to find a cure for her. Or maybe- It was just because I loved her.
I had finally reached Eliza's house, I knocked on the door, waiting for an answer. Wait. What was I thinking? Eliza's parents are never home, and she is unconscious! I wrote a quick note saying I had taken Eliza to my father's old clinic and left it on the kitchen counter. I walked up the stairs to Eliza's warm room. There she lay in bed, unconscious. I picked her up gently her form limply hung in my arms, and her skin was pale, and she was slightly cold to the touch. I took her to my father's car, and set her the back gently.
We drove until we finally reached the clinic. It seemed dark and unwelcoming there. I brought Eliza in, I set her in a hospital bed, and prepped the IV. I put it in her arm, and waited impatiently. I sat and watched her for three hours straight holding her porcelain hand in mine. For three hours she didn't move even the slightest, I was beginning to doubt it, but then, I saw her beautiful eyes flutter open for the first time in four years.
Nothing could express the joy I was feeling. This was such a good moment for me! I was so glad. She was finally awake.
