By Christopher J. Houston

I did not know where I was or how I got there. It was pitch black. Had I gone blind? It took me several moments to realize that my eyes were shut. I tried as hard as I could, but I could not pry them open. Nor could I move or speak. But I could hear something: the buzzing of voices, perhaps? I focused on that sound.

“She’s hypothermic,” a woman said. “And her pulse is weak.” 

“What did the toxicology tests indicate?” a man replied.

“Multi-drug overdose.”

Mom must have discovered me unconscious in my room, had me rushed to the hospital. Words could not express how happy I was to be alive.

“She’s unresponsive,” said the man. “Let’s put her on a ventilator.”

Again, I attempted to speak. Again, nothing happened. I was frustrated and afraid.

They began hooking me up to the ventilator. I felt them place the plastic tube in my mouth, down into my windpipe. I tried once more to respond, to cry out, but again my body betrayed me. Suddenly I was exhausted. 

“The poison control specialist recommended we use activated charcoal.”

“OK, nurse,” said the man. “Get it prepped.”

I was placed on my side, another tube inserted into my mouth. From what I could gather, this time the goal was to feed the tube all the way down to my esophagus, but no matter how many times they tried, they could not quite seem to properly insert the tube. 

“Doctor,” the nurse intervened after a while. “It’s just not going to work. We don’t want to risk aspiration.”

“Fine,” said the doctor. I heard him slam the tubing down in frustration. 

I could fight it no longer. Since my eyes were already closed, I went back to sleep.

*

I was stirred awake by the sound of my monitor going off, but I still couldn’t open my eyes or speak, much less, control my limbs. Despite the lack of agency, however, my body was in motion, albeit involuntarily.

“She’s seizing,” said the nurse.

“Get someone in here. Now!”

The squeak of rubber soles shuffling across linoleum announced the helpers’ arrival. My arms and legs were pinned down, my head and neck stabilized. The convulsions went on for a few more moments, then stopped as suddenly as they began. The monitor went silent.

“Let’s get a CT scan,” said the doctor. 

I could do nothing but lie there, utterly terrified. 

“The results are normal,” he said, after a while.

“Strange,” said the nurse. “So, what now?”

“Now,” said the doctor. “We wait.”

*

More time passed. I had periodic seizers, but the scans were all normal. Eventually, they hooked me up to the EEG. It was a long time before I heard the results.

“Poor prognosis,” announced the doctor.

My heart sank.

“What do we do now?” 

“Nothing we can do. We’re in wait-and-see mode from here on out.”

And that’s what I did. I waited.

*

Later, Mom came to see me. I thought, at first, I was dreaming.

“What should I do?” she said, sobbing. I realized I was not simply imagining things when I felt her touch my hand. “They said they would give it a few days, but now the doctor’s saying that you have irreversible brain damage due to cardio-respiratory arrest. I don’t know what to think. They want me to give them permission to take you off life support.”

What? No!

“You look fine to me, like you’re only resting. I can’t lose you, too. Give me a sign. Please. Let me know you’re still in there.”

I tried to provide the sign she so desperately desired–a blinking of eyes, a twiddling of fingers–but nothing happened. All I heard was Mom’s reticent sobs. 

I wanted to scream. More than ever, I wanted to live. 

But the operation to remove my organs was scheduled for the next day.

*

I listened helplessly as I was treated like meat on a slab.

“All prepped?” said the doctor.

“Just about.” 

“Good. Let’s get this over with.”

I tried once more to open my eyes. I tried so hard it felt like the effort alone might kill me, but when even that level of exertion went unrewarded, almost as an afterthought, I used what little strength I had left to flip Death the bird. 

“Doctor,” gasped the nurse, a seed of hope taking root in my mind. “I think she moved her right middle finger.”

“Nonsense,” said the doctor. “An involuntary response.”

“But shouldn’t we make sure?”

“It’s nothing. Forget about it.”

“But…”

“No buts. Let’s just get this show on the road.”

The nurse sighed. “If you say so.”

I tried again to move, but this time I was either unsuccessful, or the nurse was now ignoring me.

This can’t be happening! 

It was the silence that I feared most, the uncertainty of it, the terrible inevitability. 

When they start cutting, I thought. Maybe I won’t feel the pain. 

But deep down, I knew that I would.

Somebody! Please. Say something!

Which organ would they take first: heart, liver, kidney? Would I still be conscious somehow? Maybe I had already died, and this was simply my special iteration of hell. I imagined the scalpel opening me up, blood gushing, eventually filling the room. Why wouldn’t anyone say anything?

I want to live. 

That was the thought pounding over and over in my mind like a drum. Like a heart–my heart–which would soon stop beating forever. 

I want to live. I want to live. I want to live!

And suddenly the room was flooded with a light so bright that it hurt my eyes.

*   *   *

Christopher J. Houston is a 49-year-old aspiring author. He grew up on U.S. Air Force bases across the world, and now lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma.