Adam lay perfectly still on the hospital bed. He couldn't move a muscle. Not his arms, not his legs, not even his neck. It felt like his body was made of stone, heavy and useless.
But inside his head, everything was working. His mind was wide awake, trapped inside a body that wouldn't listen.
He stared straight up at the ceiling. It was made of white square tiles, the kind you see in offices or hospitals.
One of the tiles near the window had a faint brown stain, maybe from an old water leak. He'd stared at that stain so many times, it felt like an old, boring friend.
He could see the room around him in the edges of his vision, even though he couldn't turn his head. Pale green walls, a metal stand holding bags of clear liquid connected to tubes in his arm, a digital clock on the wall opposite his bed that he couldn't quite read from this angle.
He could hear everything too. The soft, rhythmic beep of a machine near his head, the distant rumble of a cart rolling down the hallway, the quiet hum of the air conditioning.
Mostly, though, there was just the sound of his own breathing, quiet and steady, something his body did without him having to think about it. Thank goodness for that.
He had no real idea how long he'd been like this. Days melted into weeks, weeks into months, months into years.
He tried to remember his life before, but the memories were hazy, like trying to see through fog. He remembered running, laughing, the feeling of sunshine on his skin. But it felt like a story about someone else. He thought he was probably around thirty-five years old now.
He remembered his thirtieth birthday because his brother had brought a small cake, even though Adam couldn't eat it. Had it really been five years since then? Or maybe more? Time didn't mean much when every day was exactly the same.
Wake up (or realize the room was bright), stare at the ceiling, listen, wait for the nurses, maybe hear his family's voices, and then darkness again.
Just then, he heard the soft squeak of rubber-soled shoes on the polished floor.
A nurse came into his line of sight. She had a kind face, brown hair tied back neatly under a cap. He recognized her, vaguely. Maybe she was Nurse Anne? Or was it Nurse Carol? Their faces sometimes blurred together. She moved to his side with practiced, gentle movements, checking the monitors and the IV drip connected to his arm.
She started talking to him. "Good morning, Adam. How are we feeling today?" Her voice was calm and soothing, the kind of voice people use when they talk to babies or sick people. He hated that voice.
It made him feel even more helpless. He couldn't answer her, of course. He couldn't even blink to show he understood. He usually just let the sounds wash over him, a meaningless noise in the background of his silent world.
But today, other sounds pulled his attention. Footsteps, hesitant ones, followed the nurse into the room. He heard a soft sniffle, a shaky breath. He forced his mind to focus, to listen intently. He knew those sounds.
Two more people came into view, standing near the foot of his bed. His mother was there. She looked older than he remembered from the last visit, or maybe it was just the harsh hospital lighting.
Her hair was mostly gray now, pulled back loosely. There were deep lines etched around her eyes and mouth, lines of worry and sadness that hadn't been there when he was younger.
Her eyes, weary and red-rimmed, stared at him, but it felt like she was looking through him, lost in her own pain. Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched her worn handbag.
Standing just behind her, a bit taller, was his younger brother, Mike. Mike wasn't a kid anymore. Adam remembered him as a scrawny teenager, always running around. Now he was a young man, maybe twenty-five? He looked tired too, his shoulders slumped slightly. In his hands, he clutched two brightly colored books.
Adam recognized the art style instantly. Manga. Japanese comics. Mike had been bringing him manga for years now. Ever since Adam had first gotten sick… no, not sick, paralyzed… Mike would visit and read the stories aloud. Stories of powerful heroes, exciting adventures, worlds where anything was possible.
Mike hoped the stories might offer Adam some escape, some flicker of enjoyment in his dark reality. Adam appreciated the effort, he really did, even if he couldn't show it. He liked hearing his brother's voice, remembering the times they used to read comics together as kids.
But today felt different. Very different.
Usually, when Mike read, there was a forced energy in his voice, an attempt at excitement. Usually, his mother would offer a small, trembling smile, holding onto a tiny thread of hope.
Not today. There was no energy in Mike's posture, just sadness. His grip on the manga seemed tight, desperate, like he was holding onto them for support. And his mother… her eyes held no hope at all, only a deep, aching sorrow.
Tears were silently rolling down her cheeks, leaving wet tracks on her pale skin. Mike's eyes were wet too, glistening under the fluorescent lights.
They weren't looking at him with hope anymore. They were looking at him with goodbye in their eyes.
Adam strained to listen as the nurse spoke again, her voice soft and low, directed at his mother.
"This decision is never easy," the nurse said gently. Her gaze was full of sympathy as she looked at Adam's mother. "There's no right or wrong time. It's about what you feel is best, for him and for you."
Adam's mother took a deep, shaky breath. He could hear the rattle in her chest. When she spoke, her voice was thick with tears, broken. "I… I just…" She stopped, swallowed hard, and tried again. "I can't… I can't watch him suffer like this anymore. Trapped. It's not… it's not living."
His brother's head bowed slightly. Mike's grip tightened on the manga, his knuckles turning white. A single tear escaped and rolled down his cheek. He didn't brush it away.
Adam watched them, his mind screaming. No! I'm still here! I can hear you! Don't give up! But no sound came out. No movement flickered. He was a spectator at his own ending, unable to object, unable to comfort them, unable to say goodbye.
He could only lie there, trapped behind his unmoving eyes, and watch their hearts break.
The room was quiet for a moment, filled only by the steady beep of the machine and the sound of his mother's quiet crying. The nurse waited patiently, her expression understanding.
She had probably seen scenes like this many times before. It was part of her job, but Adam wondered if it ever got easier for her. She gave his mother and brother a moment, then asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper,
"Would you like to stay here with him, or would you prefer to wait outside in the family room?"
Adam's mind raced. Go, he thought. Please go. Don't watch this. He didn't want their last memory of him to be this moment, watching the life fade from his useless body.
But neither his mother nor his brother moved an inch. His mother lifted her head slightly, her eyes meeting his brother's for a brief second. A silent agreement passed between them. They wouldn't leave him alone. Not now. They chose to stay.
The nurse seemed to understand their silent decision. She gave a small, sad nod. Reaching into the pocket of her scrubs, she pulled out a small glass vial filled with a clear liquid.
It looked harmless, like water. She carefully broke the seal on the vial and drew the liquid into a syringe.
Then, she moved towards the IV stand next to his bed. She deftly uncapped a port on the tube that ran into his arm and attached the syringe.
With a slow, steady pressure on the plunger, the clear liquid began to flow from the syringe, mixing with the fluids already dripping into his veins.
Adam felt it almost immediately.
It wasn't painful. Not at all. It started as a strange warmth, deep inside his chest, spreading outwards. It felt like sinking into a warm bath after being cold for a very long time.
The warmth traveled down his arms, into his still legs, filling his entire body with a heavy, comforting heat. Along with the warmth came a deep, overwhelming drowsiness, like sleep pulling him under after days of being awake.
His thoughts, usually racing and trapped, began to slow down, becoming thick and syrupy. But his understanding was crystal clear. He knew exactly what was happening.
So… this is it, he thought. The thought wasn't panicked, surprisingly. There was a strange sense of calm, of acceptance. After all these years… trapped in this silence, in this darkness… it's finally over. Relief washed over him, mingled with a profound sadness.
Relief that the endless, unchanging days were ending. Sadness for the life he never got to live fully, for the people he was leaving behind, for the experiences he would never have.
Tears welled up in his own eyes. He couldn't control them any more than he could control his limbs. He felt their heat gather at the corners of his eyes, then spill over, rolling silently down his temples, wetting the crisp white pillowcase beneath his head.
He wished he could turn his head, just once, to look at his mother, at his brother. To tell them it was okay. To tell them he loved them. But all he could do was cry his silent tears.
The warm, heavy feeling intensified. The drug was working quickly, gently pulling him away.
Adam felt his connection to the world loosening, like a rope fraying strand by strand. He knew these were his final moments of consciousness. The last few seconds of being Adam.
A thought surfaced through the growing haze in his mind. A wish. A prayer. He wasn't a particularly religious man, not anymore. Too many years lying helpless had worn away any strong faith he might have had.
But in this final moment, as everything faded, a desperate plea formed in the quietest corner of his mind. He sent it out into the universe, into the darkness that was rapidly closing in.
If… if there's something after this… The thought felt slow, drawn out. If there is another life… please… He gathered the last fragments of his focus, his desire born from years of utter powerlessness, of being completely dependent, completely weak. Let me be strong. Not just okay. Not just healthy. Let me be the strongest. Strong enough to act, strong enough to protect, strong enough to never, ever be helpless like this again.
The darkness wasn't like sleep. It was deeper, thicker. It pressed in from all sides, swallowing the light, swallowing the sounds. The image of the stained ceiling tile vanished. The pale green walls dissolved.
The steady beeping of the heart monitor beside his bed seemed to grow faint, stretching out, becoming slower… more distant… until it was gone. The quiet hum of the machines faded next.
He could still sense his mother's soft weeping, his brother's choked breaths, but they were like echoes from far away now. Getting farther and farther. Their sounds distorted, muffled, until they too dissolved into the vast, empty silence.
Everything just… stopped.
The nurse's gentle movements, the scent of antiseptic, the feeling of the sheets against his skin, the weight of his own body – it all dissolved. Thought itself became impossible. There was no fear, no sadness, no relief anymore.
There was only darkness.
And then, silence. Complete and total silence. The end of Adam.
End of the chapter.