Life Support

I'm floating outside of my body, gazing upon a hospital bed, and the woman in it. Tubes cover the majority of her face, but underneath them is sickly pale skin. Her pallor appears as if it has absorbed death itself. Her chest rises and falls with each breath of oxygen that the ventilator is pumping into her; she's completely reliant on it for survival. Even with her eyes closed, I can still visibly see that they are sunken-in and dark. They give the impression that even if she were to open them, there would only be black pits beneath her eyelids. Beside her, vital monitors reflect numbers that instantly bring heaviness to the room.

I am looking at the woman as a stranger, but deep down, I know that the woman in the bed is me. At last, the outside of my body actually projects the inside. I am lifeless; relying completely on the ventilator to keep me breathing- just as I had once relied on my friends to give me a reason to live. Their love was my oxygen, and if they starved me of it for even a moment, I was at risk of suffocating. I failed to realize that I should’ve never put my life in anyone else's hands; to do so was only to commit a slow suicide.