I am in a type of waiting room. It's dim and I wait somewhere weightless between the floor and the ceiling. It was terrifying the first time, and the second. But by now, my fourth time around, I know what to expect. This is where I wait for my number. The time between life and eternity. There are no clocks and no furniture and everything is misty, like a thick grey fog without the dampness.

Exactly what happens after this part, I don't know. I've never actually gotten out. The last time I was dead it was only for three minutes and eighteen seconds. I was here. Waiting. In this very room. Anxious and anticipating and feeling like a helium balloon without a string. But never more.

Now I wait without any concept of time and remember my previous visits. How the first time I was here at ten, I was so afraid. I was terrified that I was waiting for the dementors from Harry Potter. I wanted so badly to run away and hide, but that was impossible without a body. When I woke up in a hospital bed I couldn't stop talking about this place. The heart doctor who did my surgery called in a shrink. Over and over I was asked to repeat it and explain it. The lightness of me. How I was here but I didn't have arms or legs or even a head but how I could still feel everything, even the color and thickness of the air.

People whispered and frowned when I refused to believe it was a dream or a chemical surge. And when I absolutely knew I had died no matter what they tried telling me, they stopped talking about the waiting room, and started focusing on telling me to forget it, to be happy I was getting stronger and how I was a miracle. Which I wasn't. I was just a girl with a bad heart who needed to die but hadn't. The miracle was how many times I'd finally gotten around to doing it only to be ripped back over and over. The miracle was that I wasn't insane.

This time I knew it would be different. I was home. No miracle drugs or sizzling paddles. No pacemaker or surgeon. I was finally going to get to see what comes next. Dying in a car hearing my mother sobbing hadn't been the plan, but at least it was finally an end.

The wait was always exciting. Partly because of not knowing what the next step was, but mostly because I felt amazing. I know that makes no sense considering I didn't have an actual body. But if you've ever had a car or an elephant sitting in the middle of your chest and then get off, it's a bit of a rush. And that's what you feel like when your heart finally stops. Like life is a ten ton weight and you just got released from being pinned by it. All those seconds and minutes waiting to see if my heart would stop, all the pain from movement and sickness from drugs, it ended in a blink.

I wondered if anyone else ever came here. And where they were now. Was there a number system? Was I waiting for a distant relative to come pick me up and show me the layout? Angels? God's secretary to finish the paperwork?

And then the panic. The sheer and utter panic of what if. What if this is actually it? You die and you're a weightless helium like blob waiting and there never is anything else at all? Without time to measure it's like looking for the surface of a bottomless ocean, emotions spinning and out of control about if it's been a moment or a year.

Suddenly I feel like my particles are playing cosmic pinball. My senses clam up and and the feeling of being is replaced piece by piece each one stinging and painfully hitting together and clashing. I wish that I could hold on to something anything because I feel like I'm being ripped apart and my chest hurts. My chest hurts.

I see a light in front of my eyelids and everything hurts so bad.

Eyelids.

NO! NO! NO!

I do not have eyelids. I will not open my eyes. She did not do this again. Please God. Please God.

My skin feels like someone has set me on fire. My lungs creak and gasp as they're forced up and down with a forceful whoosh. My nose picks up disinfectant and sterile smells. Tears finally come, and as if they've held to my wish of them appearing earlier they pour out the sides of my eyes wetting the hair on my temple and I'd scream if I could. I'd scream and swear and claw my back to the waiting room.

"She's coming around. Blood pressure stable, her oxygenation is back up too."

It was a woman. A doctor or nurse sounding all positive and happy. If only they understood what this did. Ripping me back time after time only to lay in a bed and feel like I'm dying or wishing to.

"Turn the sedative back on. It's only been a week. She's getting stronger but she isn't ready yet. A few more days. And call the aunt. Someone should be here when we bring her out."

Bring me out? A week? I've been here a week? Oh God they've mixed me up with someone else. Where are my parents. Why aren't they here. I smell soap and hairspray and I try my best to move my lips to tell them my name but the tube shoved down my throat prevents me from doing anything but crying. And sleep falls like a blanket.

There's nothing this time until I feel myself swimming back up from sleep, my mind trying to wiggle back down as the thousand pound weight that is my body pulls me to the surface of waking.

"I am going to keep her just a little bit sleepy. But it's important that she's awake enough to breathe without the ventilator. She may be uncomfortable, but it's only fifteen minutes. You can hold her hand, and talk to her. But let's stick with the positives and let her relax today. She's going to need to concentrate on getting the hang of breathing without help and getting a handle on the pain."

His voice swims into my sleep breaking up the fog. Fifteen minutes. I can do this. I've done it before. And then I can scream. And cry. And tell my mom how much I hate her for doing this to me again. I brace myself. The restraints holding my arms are tightened so I don't pull out the tube before they know I'm ready. I know this. I've done it before. Anger fuels me and although my throat is screaming and my gut wants to panic and thrash I don't. I close my eyes tighter and wait. Anger is the best motivator there is and right now it's fueling every breath I take.

"Cassie. It's Agnes. I'm right beside you. I'm holding your hand. Can you feel that? I'm not going to let go. I'm not leaving you. You can do this honey."

Agnes? Why the hell is Agnes here? My mom didn't even bother to come? Or my dad? Are they too busy to see what they've done to me? Are they too preoccupied to watch me suffer and see my face when the doctor says it's only a matter of time until it happens again? I seethe in anger. The beeps on the monitor sing louder and I know my heart is racing. It just pisses me off more. Shut up! Shut up!

"Cassie. This is Doctor Harlowe. You have to calm down. We need to get you off the machine. It's time to start breathing on your own now. Take a deep breath Cassie. I'm going to deflate the balloon. Breathe in Cassie. Deep. I'm taking out the tube in 3, 2, deep breath, 1.

My breathing comes in gulps. My chest screams as I try to sit up. Agnes is sitting next to me with tears rolling down her cheeks and I open my eyelids a crack and scan the room. They aren't here, my parents aren't here. Doctor Harlowe puts oxygen tubing in my nose and watches the monitor. My father's older sister, Agnes, watches it too, as if it is a crystal ball and will give them the answers to my health.

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I hope you enjoyed the second chapter. For Cassie this is the first step of a very exciting journey. I'd be mad too I suppose, especially if my parents weren't there. Unless they had a really good reason😉