when I fall

p r o l o g u e

Nothing is bright any more.

The world has dulled to a monotone grey, a bare skeleton of its old days. What used to grace the skies with its shades of blue and white is now replaced by the constant rain and the ever darkening storm. Even the walkway, once cluttered with people, now stands empty and cold as it drowns in the rainfall.

I sit by the window and tilt my head to the side, the sound of the rain hitting the glass pane absently register in my ears. If I close my eyes and let the memories take over, I can almost pretend that I am somewhere else. Almost.

But here I am, the girl whom nobody can see, hear, or touch. The girl whose body lies motionless on the stark white bedsheets, cold and barely alive. The girl whose brain activity is slowing down day after day. That girl is hooked up to a life support machine, to do the work her heart can no longer do.

On the small table next to where she lies, books, stuffed bears, flowers and gemstones monopolize the space, leaving just a small vacancy for the water jar and a glass mug. It was Mom's idea. She said if I can't do the things I like, then she will bring them to me.

In a way, I figure it is a good thing. Even though I can't touch them, but I can, at least, see them. It'd be better than to face the four walls every day and have it look back at you.

"Hey, Izzy," a quiet voice startles me out of my thoughts. It is Mom. She places an umbrella next to the door, the tip still wet, spreading a small puddle of water on the slate grey floor. The black coat she has on contrasts deeply with the dove walls of the ward, and if you look at her closely, you would have noticed the dark bags hidden underneath the baby blues of her eyes.

"How are you doing today?" she asks, not really expecting a reply, and then she waves a bouquet of purple flowers at me. "Look what I bought you — your favourite flower, lilies ."

As she turns around to replace the flowers in the vase, her back faces me and I am left to watch her silently. It is times like this when I miss my mom. Not the Mom who is married to a guy who isn't my dad, or the Mom who is also a parent to a set of twins. It is the old times that I miss, back when I was an only child, before Dad and Mom grew apart and divorced.

It doesn't take long for the memories to sneak out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks. A lump forms at the base of my throat. Hastily I wipe away the tears with the back of my thumb and cast a glance at the area, just to be sure no one caught it.

A bitter laugh escapes. Who am I kidding? I'm the only one here who can see me.

Unbeknownst to myself, Mom has already finished arranging the flowers and is now at my bedside. A melancholy look flickers across her face as she brushes a stray hair away from my forehead, her hand lingering on my cheeks for a second too long. "It feels like forever since I last saw you smile," she remarks, a tinge of sadness buried in her undertone. "You know I haven't given up on you, right? Even though everyone says I should."

I know, I tell her silently.

"But sometimes I wonder if I am making the right choice," she confides. "Am I actually holding you back? I wish I could tell you that it's okay if you want to stop fighting, but I can't."

"If no one wants to fight for you," she continues, "then at least one person should."

I sit across from her, suddenly realising how much she has aged in the past ten months. The sunken cheeks, slouched shoulders, and the sloppy way she holds herself — is it all because of me?

Mom has a faraway look in her eyes when she speaks next. "Parker and I quarrelled again last night. It was the same old topic. He said the hospital bills are piling, and at the rate it is going, we are probably going to be homeless before the year ends. He wanted to give up on you, baby, and I'm not listening to him. The doctors say you have a chance. As soon as a heart is found, they will pull you in for the surgery."

My throat constricts, and it feels hard to breathe with all the emotions running rampant inside of me.

It is funny, how giving up can mean different things when placed under different situations. If you have to give up your room for a sibling, for example, you'd just throw your arms up and say fine. You'd get a room of yourself when you head to college anyway. But throw a life decision in your face and suddenly the answer isn't so simple any more. Here, giving up can mean whether you live or die. And the worst part is, there are no second chances.

"I know you are listening, Izzy. If you're in there somewhere, don't give up. Be the fighter I taught you to be. The right heart will come to us."

I want to prove her right, to let her know that I am fighting just as hard as she is. It takes every ounce of strength to channel my concentration, to throw all that energy into a single thought, in the hopes that she'd hear it somehow. I'm here.

All of a sudden she raises her head, as if sensing me nearby. My heart swells with hope and I lift a hand, wave it awkwardly. But then the moment passes, and she buries her nose into my hands again, like nothing has happened.

The rain outside continues to fall, hitting the windows with such animosity until all I can see is a blur scenery of the world outside.

I'm here, Mom, I whisper in her ear — even though she isn't listening. I'm still here.

____

A/N: Hi, thank you for reading my story!

I hope you've enjoyed the story so far! Don't forget to vote if you like the chapter, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it if that's okay with you - it would really help me out a lot!

Thank you again so much <3

Em.