1 Prologue.
Another morning; another day of silent suffering.
Multiple beeping sounds reverberated across the basic white room. A young, sickly man lay on the blue hospital bed set up to several machines. He appeared to be struggling for air; a mask covered his mouth. His skin was deathly pale, and his eyes sunken. Arms and legs are so thin that you could mistake them for sticks.
A despaired and resigned look decorated his figure.
The large metal door clicked open, and the young man could hear footstep sounds coming toward him. His neck would not turn. No matter how much he commanded it...
"How are you doing, Mr. Eric?" Said the nurse that would usually take care of his needs.
The most the man could do was to move his eyes vertically. Even that gesture —that should have been effortless— took exceedingly much effort.
"Good. I'll call your family in.'' calmly replied the nurse.
Professionalism completely dominated her tone.
All the man could was contemplate as he waited for his family members to come in.
'How long must I remain like this… Wasn't I supposed to experience a normal life after the operation?' He bitterly thought, cursing the unfairness of the world.
He felt tiny needles prick his eyes. The sensation stopped briskly when his family walked it on him. Likewise, he must not show weakness to his parents— they were his treasures… his reason to live.
"How are you doing, son?" A warm and welcoming voice entered his ears. The all too familiar visage of his mother came into view.
She was a beautiful woman in the later parts of her life. Grey hair had already started sprouting on her head. Her captivating ocean-blue eyes tenderly gazed at the young man.
The man on the bed, chained by the machines, inherited the older woman's eyes.
His vision started to get cloudy. Tears threatened to make their escape. He miraculously managed to nod with a shaky smile on his face.
The same question elicited two very distinct responses.
— such was familial love.
The couple sitting next to him was visibly happy; their one and only son's condition slowly improving. It was their only hope in life.
Yet. The bedridden young man knew better...
Death was knocking on his door. He could almost see the grim reaper smiling at him behind his parents. It was casually waving its scythe back and forth as it bellowed him to join the other side.
He had very little time left.
"See, Clara. I told you our son would make it." An older copy of the young man grabbed his wife's shoulder as she started to sob in his chest. The happy laughter that seemed to mix along the sobs rang in the young man's ears.
This happy scene made his already broken heart bleed for his parents. He was not a good child; he never was. All he ever did was financially burden them.
It wasn't always this bad. There was a time when the young man could at least walk, but that was a far too distant memory for him to remember clearly.
"Isn't that right, champ?" The older man touched the wrinkly head of his son, looking at him warmly. Unaware of the inner turmoil his son was going through in his mind.
The strapped man couldn't help but nod and smile. He had to suppress an urge to cough blood as he usually did.
His parents didn't deserve to see him in weakness.
He repeated the mantra in his head.
"Do you still remember this, Roger?'' Clara, the man's mother, unveiled the old red photo album she would always bring with her on visits.
She stopped at one picture and lovingly touched it; tears fell on it when she looked at her son in his current state.
— a mother knew best.
The bounded man offered his shakiest and saddest smile so far. It was starting to take every ounce of his being to resist falling asleep.
Contrary to what he believed, the older woman did not break down in tears. She took his hand into hers and kissed it. ''I l-love you, son.'' She said with her voice cracking, barely controlling the dam of tears.
In the same manner, as his wife, the father took his other hand and said the same.
A peaceful expression soon graced the laying man's visage. Igniting his fuse in a brilliant effort: he managed to mutter barely above a whisper.
"I l-love you."
The young man could see the grim reaper opening his arms wide open. The cold embrace of death was waiting...
*Beep*….
*Beep*….
*Beep*….
*Beeeeeeep*.
No longer among the living. Yet the ever-present smile never went away.
The couple's sniffs quickly turned into full-on sobs and cries. The hospital staff rushed through the doors as the nurses pushed the parents away from the bedside.
The physician unassumingly came in. "Time of death: 4/XX/20XX 2:34 PM" He declared in a matter-of-fact tone.
Not at all minding the couple's feelings.
The mother and father pair didn't even have it in them to register his appearance, mourning over their dead son... Their one and only son.
The staff, after that interference, let them have their moment mourning their dead son in peace.
"Why did God have to take him, Roger?" The woman bawled her eyes out on her husband's shoulder. The man's light grey shirt gained a deeper shade with the stream of tears his wife poured out as she cried her heart out.
"I don't know, Clara… I don't know…" His son's death had just as much of an effect on him. Despite that, he chose to act as a support pillar to his wife.
Like he always did.
"He always tried to put on a show of being b-better for us. *Sniff* He was always a g-good child. Never hurt anything or anyone…" She said in a quiet voice, grabbing her husband's hand for support.
"He was, wasn't he?" The man showed a sad faint smile, mirroring his son's expression even in death.
The deathly white colour of their son's body turned into a pale blue one.
He was quickly turning cold to the touch.
The hospital staff came in pushing a new clean trademark blue bed. The father and mother pair watched as the nurses violently lifted their son from his deathbed.
"Stop it! Let go of my son." The woman tried to go against the staff, but the husband held her shoulder and sadly shook his head.
"Let's let him rest in peace, sweetie. It's what he would have wanted..." He said, prompting her cries to only grow further in intensity.
It was just another dead man getting carried. The mother and father stayed behind, huddled together, crying and weeping in the silent— empty room over the loss of their son.
Another morning; another day of silent suffering.
