Through your eyes I live.

A Story by Radioactive

This bed is my prison, I’m as good as locked in by the threat of dying, but it doesn’t mean that it has to be yours.

As my eyes flutter open and I drift back into consciousness, all I can see is the white walls that surround me, threatening to close in at any moment. Then my eyes focus on you, and the background fades into the distance, even as blinding as it is. You’re right where you were a week ago, and the week before that, and sometimes I think you are as much a part of the hospital scenery as the white walls or the bubblegum pink floors. I’m confined to this bed, forced to wilt away under the crisp yellow sheets, like a candle in a strong breeze. This bed is my prison, I’m as good as locked in by the threat of dying, but it doesn’t mean that it has to be yours. You are healthy; you are free.

“Go on,” I tell you. “See the world and then come back here and tell me everything.”

Go and live. Through your eyes I live.