I lay there staring at my laptop, the glow of the screen painting my face pale blue in the darkness of my room. It was almost hypnotic—the flickering cursor, the endless scrolling, the quiet hum of a machine that had become my best friend. There wasn't much left for me in this world except the small refuge of reading.
Books were my only form of escape. When I couldn't move, they carried me. When I couldn't hear, they spoke for me. And when I couldn't talk, they became my voice. My online library showed nearly a thousand finished books—yes, a thousand. Another five hundred lay scattered all over the room and the ground floor, half-open, folded at the corners, holding pieces of me between their pages.
Still, no matter how many stories I read, none of them could rewrite mine.
It's funny—people think silence is peaceful. It isn't. Silence is heavy. It presses against your ears, against your skull, against your chest until you start to forget what laughter sounds like. It becomes its own kind of noise—endless, echoing, cruel.
My life is boring, painfully boring. Days stretch out like unending roads, each one blending into the next. Therapy, rest, eat, pretend, repeat. Having no one to talk to makes it worse. Triple boring, if that's even a thing.
I scroll through the last chapter of my book, sigh, and close it. The end. Just like that—another story finished, another moment of someone else's life that didn't hurt as much as mine. I move to Google, my fingers moving on autopilot, typing in the same dark phrases I've memorized by heart:
"Ways to commit suicide quietly."
"How to die without anyone noticing."
"Painless deaths at home."
I know it's wrong. I know Mama would break if she saw what I search for. But it's the only thing that gives me some sort of control. Everything else—my body, my hearing, my voice—was taken. This, at least, is mine.
The door creaks. I quickly minimize the tab, pretending to be reading something else. Mama walks in, her face tired but still somehow soft, holding onto that fragile kind of hope I can't stand to look at. She taps me lightly on the shoulder, points to her mouth, then rubs her stomach. Dinner time. She's terrible at sign language, but I understand. I nod.
She smiles, faintly. Then she lifts me like I'm made of glass, careful not to hurt me, and settles me into the wheelchair. The metal is cold under my skin. I hate that feeling—it reminds me that I can't even walk to dinner on my own.
She pushes me toward the dining room. I brace myself for the usual sight: Dad, slumped over, beer in hand, pretending not to notice us. The TV blaring some show he doesn't actually watch. The smell of alcohol thick in the air, stinging the back of my throat. It's pathetic, but it's normal.
And there he is—same spot, same table. Only this time… something feels off.
He's sitting there, head bowed low, face pressed against his folded arms. But there's no snoring, no lazy movement, no muttered words. Just stillness.
I wait for him to lift his head when he hears us come in. He doesn't.
Mama stops. I can feel her body tense behind me. She hesitates, then steps forward and taps his shoulder lightly. Nothing. Another tap. Then another. Still nothing.
A strange coldness spreads through my chest. Panic—small at first, almost reluctant—starts crawling up my spine. My breath catches even though I can't hear it. I silently take back every cruel thought I've ever had about wanting him gone. Every stupid, angry prayer I made just because I was tired of watching him drink himself away.
Mama's lips move. "David," she says. His name. She shakes him harder. "David!"
Still nothing.
The air changes—thicker, heavier. My mother's face pales as she presses two fingers against his neck. I watch her closely, my eyes following every twitch of her expression. Her lips part slightly. Her pupils widen. Then I see it—fear. Real fear.
No.
Her hand drops, trembling, and she staggers back like she's been slapped. She turns, searching frantically for her phone. I can't hear anything, but I can feel the panic vibrating off her body like static.
When she finally finds it, she dials with shaking hands. I just sit there, frozen, my chest tight. I should feel something—I don't know—grief? Horror? But all I feel is confusion and a strange kind of emptiness. Like my body hasn't caught up with what's happening.
The next ten minutes are a blur. I watch Mama run to the door, and soon, two paramedics rush in behind her. Their mouths move fast, their hands faster, as they try CPR, chest compressions, oxygen—every possible thing they can think of. I stare, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Then one of them stops. He looks at Mama. His lips form words I wish I hadn't learned to read:
"We're sorry, ma'am. Your husband is dead."
And just like that, the room breaks.
Mama crumples to the floor, a soundless cry tearing from her chest. I can see it in the way her face twists, the way her shoulders shake. I can't hear it, but I feel it in my bones.
I sit there watching, my heart oddly calm. My thoughts start racing, but not in the way people expect.
Why now? Why a week and a half before my twentieth birthday? Couldn't he have died earlier? Or waited until after?
It sounds horrible, but that's where my brain goes—to timing, not loss. Maybe I'm broken beyond repair.
But then another thought creeps in. Maybe this is mercy. Maybe life decided to take him before he completely destroyed himself. Maybe it's one less burden for Mama. One down. One more to go.
If any of my plans ever work, she'll finally be free of both of us.
The paramedics cover his face and carry him out. Mama stays on the floor, her tears wetting the tile, her hands clutching the hem of her dress. She must have loved him. I suppose love makes you cry like that—for someone who stopped trying long ago.
I can't relate. Love is a language I've never learned.
So I just sit there, numb, watching as the door closes behind them. Watching as my father leaves this world—silent, still, peaceful.
And I can't help but think how unfair it is.
He got to rest.
He got to leave.
And I'm still here—stuck in this wheelchair, trapped in this body, with a wish that I could trade places with him.
So damn unfair.