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Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!His sleep was restless and filled with nightmares, after one particularly nasty one he woke up. Awake; he shivered, violent ones that shook the whole bed with him. He looked up, a TV had been hung above him at the opposite end. The display had long turned off but a small digital clock lay underneath, 2:20 AM was lit in soft blue light. “Why is it so god damn cold in here?” he mumbled but then turned to the sound of something billowing in the wind. A window lay open only visible from the violent struggles of its curtains to be free.
Micheal moved his hand over to a button that was installed to his bed, ready to call the nurse to have her close the window but stopped. He tried to get up, having decided to get it himself. His hand gripped the cold bar at the side of his bed, but his grip wasn’t strong enough and he fell back, intense pain that almost made him yelp.
“Fuck!” He moaned, despair overtaking him. He tried again but it was too much for him. “God damn it.” Tears threatened to push through. He gave up trying to make his way to the window and fell back down into his bed. His eyelids squeezed tight as he desperately held back what he was feeling.
Would my life always be like this?
A burning pit of acid in his chest, the thought terrified of him.
I’d be better off dead.
It seemed so simple, no more doctor visits, no more surgeries, no more false hopes.
I want to die.
Eyes looked around the room with a new goal. The plate of food was still there, a steak knife lay next to it, clean and pristine, a beautifully ornate piece of silverware with an ivory handle as sharp as the day it was bought.
I want to die.
Hands reached out, grasping for the knife. He rolled to his right, chest pressing into the railing that served to make sure he didn’t roll off. The cold metal railing torturing his skin making it feel like it would burn right off from the cold.
I can’t take anymore.
Fingers brushed the wood of the food tray, grabbing a hold of it and pulling it towards him. He felt around ignoring the cold food that still lay on the plate. Then he held it in hand. The effort exhausting, Micheal he nearly dropped it as he collapsed back into his bed but managed to keep a hold of it. Shadows danced in the room, as if with a mind of their own, but Micheal only saw the knife. Even when the wind picked up and all the sounds of the little machines that kept track of him 24/7 had died. His eyes were glued to the knife that he could only see the slightest of. His head dizzy from breathing too fast for too long.
No more.
Or so he thought, until the moment that the cold steel touched his wrist. Frozen terror like nothing he had ever felt before ran through him. Did he want to die?
I don’t want to die.
I want to die.
Die.
No.
Please let it end.
On and on his inner conflict went stuck between the terror and despair, his hand shook. He let go of the knife and it clattered to the floor, the only noise in the now completely silent room. “I can’t do it.” He moaned tears finally breaking free from his control, and he shook.
It took a few minutes of calming down before he realized that there was something off about his room. It was too quiet. The clock no longer said the time. He looked over to the machines to his right, the ones that usually kept a measure of his vitals. Dead, completely off.
Was there a blackout? A single noise broke the eerie silencer. He looked over to where he thought the sound had come from and his eyes locked on to a figure where none had been moments before. Visible only by the moon’s light Micheal could feel the ice in his veins. What was this person doing here? The scent of fresh-turned ground filled the room, and he could see what he could only think of as black snowflakes. “Who are you?” He yelled out in terror.