You know what's funny? Dying. Not the "ha-ha" funny, but the "what-the-hell-is-this-my-life" kind of funny. People always talk about death like it's some great, poetic finale, like slipping into the night with a sigh. But me? I was dying because I tried to save my stupid boyfriend with a kidney.
One of mine, by the way, if you didn't get the gist of it.
Marie. That was my name. Still is, I think. Hard to say now.
Anyway, when I first signed up to be his personal organ donor, I thought: Hey, love is sacrifice. Romantic, right? Maybe even noble. But then, plot twist: the transplant that was supposedly a glowing success turned out to be a total disaster. Surprise! Turns out, one "minor surgical mishap" later, my body went full apocalypse mode. Infection, pain, the whole decaying-flesh aesthetic—super trendy.
Don't mind me... Just hyperventilating.
The doctors didn't even look me in the eye anymore. My parents tried to sue, but I couldn't tell if it was out of grief or just dollar signs flashing behind their eyelids. Probably the second one. Honestly, I always suspected they liked my boyfriend more than me. No idea why. He never even loaded the dishwasher properly.
But there I was, hooked up to beeping machines, skin pale, life leaking out of me like a poorly written soap opera death scene. The doctor came in again—same one as always. He looked like someone's retired Santa Claus who'd seen too much. Sad eyes, clipboard, and that slow sigh that said, "You're not going to like this next part."
Honestly? I wasn't even listening. His words sounded like alphabet soup someone shook too hard. I knew what he meant, though. The end was near. Blah blah. Cue the violins.
And I was weirdly okay with that.
Not to be dramatic, though, let's be honest, I earned it—but I didn't really see the point in fighting anymore. My boyfriend didn't visit me anymore.
Or actually, I have no clue in hell what the guy is up to—him being alive was as good of a guess as your next-door neighbor's cat named John.
As for my parents… they were... alive and disappointing.
And me? I was just a sad sack of skin full of regrets and dying organs.
Still, there was one tiny thing I wanted before I went out: a glass of cold water.
"Can I please get a glass of water?" I asked, voice as dry as my sense of humor.
The doctor gave a tired smile. "Of course."
"From the fountain outside," I added. "That water's elite. The best around." I say, as if I have tasted any other kind of water than hospital water for the last 3 months.
He didn't argue. No one argues with the dying girl—typical. As soon as the door shut, I sat up, my whole body screaming in protest. Almost knocked over the damn flower vase.
Now or never.
I hobbled to the edge of the room, and that's when I felt it—the IV tug, like a reminder from the universe: Hey girl, you're still plugged in. So I bit my lip, grabbed the tube, and ripped it out like I was auditioning for a horror film. Blood. Pain. Lots of it. But whatever. It's not like I had plans for the weekend.
The door opened just as I reached the plug for the kidney machine. The doctor froze, wide-eyed, holding my fancy glass of water. I smiled. He dropped it.
"Thanks for everything, Doc."
And I pulled the plug myself.
Dramatic? Yes. Satisfying? Absolutely. My body collapsed, and as everything went blurry and the nurses rushed in shouting my name, I had one last thought:
If I get a second chance, I swear to God, I'm not living for anyone else but me.
And then—
Nothing.
Black.
…
Wait. No. Not nothing.
I was still… here. Wherever "here" was. I couldn't see, but I could feel. My limbs weren't there, but they were. I was floating? Falling? Spinning? Who knew?
Oh God—did they save me?! I swear, if I wake up in that hospital with my mom crying fake tears and my Schrodinger ex-boyfriend pretending to care, I will personally haunt everyone involved.
But then, wind. Air. I was falling. Not like "whoops I tripped", more like "Alice in Wonderland on crack". It reminded me of that time I fell down Grandma's stairs and cracked a rib. Memories.
Suddenly—
WHAM. I was awake.
I sat up, gasping, covered in sweat. My hands flailed, grabbing onto silky sheets, and—wait. What? My bed was soft. My room was massive. There were medieval wall lamps. A chandelier. Curtains with embroidery. This… wasn't my hospital room.
This wasn't even my reality.
I looked down at myself. Thin, elegant hands. Flowing white dress. Blonde Hair—wait. Blonde?! Long, golden twin tails fell over my shoulders like I was starring in some Renaissance anime. I stumbled off the bed, my dress dragging along the floor like I was in a bridal catalog.
I found a mirror.
And holy crap.
She—I—was beautiful. Big pearl-blue eyes, pale flawless skin, and hair so golden it could file taxes as treasure. I looked like a princess. A full-on, fantasy novel, page-one princess.
My knees gave out. I collapsed, staring at this stranger in the glass—this flawless, unfamiliar face—and somewhere deep in my new lungs, I wheezed:
What the hell?!
The door burst open. A maid stepped in, wearing a black and white uniform straight out of a Victorian drama. She rushed to my side, panic in her eyes.
"Lady Elisha, are you alright?! I heard a loud bang!"
She called me Elisha.
That girl in the mirror… that wasn't just some fantasy princess.
That was ME?!