So this is the end.
Seriously?
This is how I go out? St. Arden's freaking Medical Center, fluorescent lights flickering like they're mourning me in real-time, and the ECG screaming bloody murder in the background like a damn banshee in a hospital drama. Three nurses, bless them or whatever, are flailing around like headless chickens, trying to pretend like any of this is salvageable. One's poking at my arm with a face like she's trying not to cry—girl, same—and the other two are trying to soothe the two wrecks otherwise known as Jonas and Mira Vale.
Yes. My parents.
God, their faces. Mom's already collapsed into Dad's arms like some kind of tragic opera wife, her sobs echoing louder than the machines. She keeps doing this thing where she screams without fully opening her mouth. It's very dramatic. I can't even hate her for it.
And Dad—he's shaking. His whole body, not just the emotional quiver thing. Actual muscle spasms. That man always tried to play stoic but let's be honest, he cries during Christmas commercials. He's not okay. None of us are.
"Has someone called the doctor?!" One of the nurses yells like she's not two seconds from a breakdown.
"He's on his way!"
What a sentence. Like hope is en route.
Spoiler alert: it's not.
A heartbeat later (pun not intended), in comes Dr. Halden, Mr. Dramatic Entrance himself, like a man in a deodorant commercial with his white coat flying open and his hair somehow still perfect. Like, sir, this is not Grey's Anatomy. This is a death scene. Can we not?
Mira—I can't even call her "Mom" right now, it feels too heavy—rushes him like she's been rehearsing this her whole life. Collapses at his feet. Grabs his coat. Sobbing. Begging. The whole Oscar-nomination-level thing.
"Doctor, please, I'm begging you, save her! Save my daughter!"
There's a reason I hate the word "save." It implies we were ever safe to begin with.
"Someone take the parents out of here!" Dr. Halden barks like we're not in a real-life tragedy.
The nurses jump to it. They practically drag Jonas and Mira away, her heels clacking on the floor like a terrible farewell song. She fights them, of course she does. But he convinces her. He always convinces her.
I don't move. Can't. Won't.
Just lying here. A corpse in training.
And yeah, I cry. Just one tear. Like a cliché. But it's not because I'm scared.
I'm not scared.
I'm tired.
Like, bone-deep, soul-level, fashion-in-the-morgue exhausted.
They're crying because they're losing me. I'm crying because they're still here. Still suffering.
I'm not afraid of dying. I'm afraid of leaving them with this mess. With this hole. With me.
God, I've always been a burden. The kind that smiles politely and ruins your finances.
Seris Vale. That's me. I guess.
Sixteen years of being the sad miracle. The "gift from the gods" that turned out to be defective.
Jonas and Mira Vale were perfect before me. Cute couple, midlife romance, two careers, one humble home. Couldn't have kids. Tried everything. IVF. Prayers. That weird fertility incense from Etsy. Nothing. Then suddenly—me.
Their miracle.
Plot twist: the miracle was on backorder and full of bugs.
At five, I got tired all the time. At six, my appetite ghosted me. At seven, I fainted in the kitchen. Anemia, they said. Just to be safe, they took blood. The blood took everything.
Leukemia. Full send.
They said 80% of kids survive it.
Guess who's not in the 80% club.
Spoiler: it's me.
Every treatment? Failed. Every hope? Dashed. Every promise? Expired. They tried the transplant route, but the universe was like, "Haha, no." Jonas and Mira didn't match. Of course they didn't. And the donor list? Basically a death queue.
They gave me a year.
I gave them six.
Miracle, they called me. Again.
Miracle my ass.
If the gods are real, they've got a twisted sense of humor. Like, why let my parents hope just to crush them every three months with some new medical horror? If you're gonna kill me, kill me. Don't breadcrumb my existence like a sadistic Netflix series.
I watched them decay faster than me. Mira stopped doing her nails. Jonas started talking to himself. They sold the house. Took second jobs. Lived on granola bars and guilt. All to keep me breathing in beige rooms like this.
And I hated it.
I hated myself.
But I couldn't not exist, could I?
So I made up a world.
When I wasn't puking or praying for morphine, I drew. I created Erthia. My world. My city-in-the-sky-under-the-sea-in-a-forest mess of a fantasy universe.
Dragons. Goblins. Entire nations with tax laws.
Cities with gender-neutral monarchies.
Armored mermaids.
Thousands of sheets, crammed into the drawers of this depressing hospital suite and in boxes back at their rented apartment. My little escapist empire.
Oh—and I studied, too. Because I thought I'd get better. For like, a second. I wanted to be ready. Just in case.
But I never got better.
I just got smarter.
Which, honestly, is worse.
Knowing too much in a broken body is like owning a Ferrari with no wheels.
Still, it made my parents smile. Which was enough. Sometimes.
Fast forward to a few months ago. My sixteenth birthday.
Surprise. They found a donor.
Cue tears. Balloons. Confetti in everyone's hearts. I thought they were joking at first. Who jokes about that? But no. It was real. My name came up. My body had one more shot.
Mira fainted. Jonas cried. I stared at the wall like someone just told me I had to go to prom.
The operation happened.
I was "saved."
Then—plot twist. Again.
Abdominal pain. Vomiting. Liver screaming in Morse code. Intestines folding in on themselves like bad origami.
Transplant rejection.
Of course.
Because duh.
The universe never does sequels well.
So here we are.
Lights dimming.
Vision blurring like someone smudged reality.
White walls melting into gray.
And I remember their faces. The way Mira used to kiss my forehead like it could cure me. The way Jonas paced the room like his steps could make the machines stop beeping.
I'm sorry.
For being born.
For existing wrong.
For costing them everything.
I close my eyes.
No more hospitals.
No more hope.
Just dark.
And silence.
And maybe, finally, peace.