I crash to the floor, the cold hand of Death upon my chest. The pressure builds in my chest cavity. My breaths come in small gasps as I struggle against the pull of the Grim Reaper. “No! I don’t want to go with you! I want to live!”
Death doesn’t care what I want, he is here to do his job.
I push with my feet and lean against the wall. “Of all the ways to die this has got to be one of the most horrible endings in the history of ever,” I gasp. “It’s a good thing Amy isn’t here to see me squirm. I’m sure she would say something about peasants deserving a peasant death.”
The pressure eases off my chest, and I clutch to the hope that maybe I will survive this ordeal. I pull out my flip phone and dial 911. Briskly, I explain where I am, and what is happening. In minutes, I am taken to the hospital. As the paramedics wheel me in, a doctor meets us in the hallway.
It’s Amy Appleton. The freaking doctor who may save my life is going to be the woman who broke my love life. Crap.
“Wheel him into room #3,” she shouts. The nurses rush me into the ICU. They prep me for whatever is going to happen next. One of them injects something into my IV, and I drift off into a medicinal slumber.
It has been my experience that my dreams and medicine do not mix well. This time is no different from the million other times I’ve had dreams. I dream of peasants, guillotines, and a cruel ruler whose name is Queen Amy.
I drift in and out of consciousness. Finally, I crash into peaceful slumber, I am okay with whatever comes next.
Bright sunlight causes me to rub my eyes. I crack an eye open and look around for the streets of gold or at least my mansion that’s made just for me. Or a line that stretches from one quadrant of eternity to the other end of said eternity. Instead, I am in a hospital bed, a pretty nurse is standing beside my bed taking the readings from a machine.
She stares at me. Her eyes are the size of half dollars, panic registers in her voice as she presses a button and pages a doctor to my room. A pitcher of water is next to my bed. I pick up a Styrofoam cup and pour some water in it. Doctor Amy Appleton walks in my room. She looms larger than life like the nightmare version of Queen Amy.
“Well, look who is back in the land of the living…” I smile weakly. “Yeah,” I mutter. She slithers close, like a rattlesnake preparing to strike. Her eyes look at the machine and then she sits by my bed.
“Who knew cleaning up after other people would be so stressful on your little ticker? How are you feeling this morning?”
“I’m okay. When can I go home?”
“When I release you from the hospital. If there are no lingering symptoms you can go home in the morning.”
She watches me with those cold, cold eyes. I squirm under her intense gaze. “It’s my senior year all over again. I should have went into the light,” I think to myself.
Yesterday was meant to be my last day on Earth, but I made it to another day. Now, I’m worse off for it.