Why the hell is it so cold?
I knew that there would be some discomfort involved, but I didn’t know that feeling the cold would be one of them. I’m not supposed to be conscious.
The day before the lights went out, I sat in the park with . . . what was his name? Michael? Matthew? We talked, but I don’t remember much. I remember the sun, and children shrieking with joy.
I remember joy. Joy when I agreed to hover between life and death, frozen, until they found a cure.
“Just sign on the line,” the doctor said. I did willingly. Right?
Matthew (was that his name) signed with me. He signed his life away to wait for me.
I disagreed of course. “You have a life. You’re not sick.”
“I can’t live without you.”
Romantic? You’d think. I remember little now but darkness. And cold. I wasn’t supposed to feel the cold. I hear voices outside sometimes.
“He didn’t make it. The pod malfunctioned.”
The dark and cold are miserable, but they’re consistent. When the lights come back on, I will be alive, but alone.