I bury my face in my hands.
Bree’s seizure happened almost a week ago, yet the terror and worry I felt that day have never faded away. If anything, it only intensifies with the news I receive from the doctors each day. Those feelings will probably never go away. Not until she’s gone, when I’ll be too overwhelmed with sadness to feel anything else.
Back then, when I ran my fingers over her hair, I should’ve realized that those golden strands were matted down with blood. That’s the reason she’s in the hospital today. It wasn’t the seizure itself, but the fall she had taken from her wheelchair to the floor because of it. The doctors have said that such a fall wouldn’t have caused nearly this much damage on a normal person, but Bree’s fragile bones from her premature birth made her a rare case.
I grip the armrests of the chair, wrapping my fingers as tightly around them as I can in an attempt to release all this anger that’s coursing through me. Bree isn’t dying because of cerebral palsy, or even because of the seizure. She’s dying because she’s fragile. And that’s what seems unfair to me. If she had been born like any other girl, she wouldn’t be here today. She would be awake now, walking and laughing and sharing that golden voice with the world.
But then, if she had been born like any other girl, I also never would have been drawn to her in the first place. I would have missed seeing her smile, would have never heard her voice. She’d be alive but simply never a part of my life.
I still can’t decide which of these is worse: never meeting Bree Adams or watching her die.
YOU ARE READING
The Fighter
Short StoryI wish I could say Bree was strong. “She’s a fighter,” the doctors say. “She can beat this.” But I know better. They just say these things so that we don’t give up on her, to let us hope she has a chance. In reality, she never did. ~Taken from The...
