"Tell me, is it so hard to follow your dreams?

All it takes is a goal and the will to follow through-

But I've fallen into a hole that I can't get out of,

And all my will has fallen too."

"I'm sorry if I've let you down,

If your hopes are dashed as mine were tattered,

But I can't keep down this road anymore,

My dreams today were shattered."

"This is the last you'll hear my voice,

The last you'll hear my songs.

My voice is no longer mine to give;

Tomorrow it will be gone."

From the moment I wake up, I'm irritated. I didn't want to wake up. If it were up to me, I would sleep forever. But no-someone decided it was a good idea to turn the TV on, and now the 7 o'clock news is blaring through my tiny little room. I screw my eyes shut and try to bury my face back into my pillow, but my body is unwilling to respond. It shudders a little bit at the command, but my failure at rolling over lands me stranded on my side. Facing the TV, I assume-it's louder now.

"Today marks the four-year anniversary of the death of singer and actress K-Kass, along with her last hit single 'Shattered Dreams.'"

Oh, that's why the song was familiar, I think to myself, frowning. I think I listened to that... what. sophomore year? It was a good song.

Now somewhat invested in the news story, I crack one eye open, staring up at the TV fixed up on the wall. The story cut away from the reporter long enough to show footage that's nearly two years old now. The images of crying teenagers setting up shrines to K-Kass strikes some kind of chord in me. Maybe I was among those teenagers somewhere? She really was a great singer. There's a small video clip of a group of teenagers at Meloria High-my old high school-chanting one of the celebrity's signature phrases with shining cheeks.

"'K-Kass, full of sass-bold and bright and so bad-ass!'"

I'm fairly sure that I was somewhere around the edge of the frame there-that looked like my trademark purple turtle-neck. Yep. Sure enough, as the video pans right, you can just barely see my pale, freckled face. My wide leaf-green eyes show as much distress as the other weeping teenagers, tears oozing out from under rectangular glasses. Looking back on it, I haven't really changed much since then. I suppose my dark brown hair is about shoulder length now, but apart from that, I'm just a slightly older version of me.

...

Or I would say that, if not for the obvious.

I try to keep those thoughts at bay by remembering my cringe-worthy adoration for the frilly pink idol. The video fades out, and a picture of her at one of her last concerts is put up on the screen. The twenty-something singer-celebrity is singing her heart out, microphone held close with her other arm outstretched with emotion. Her strawberry blond hair is pulled into a ponytail, with part of it remaining down, concealing one ear. The tips are died a pastel pink-that seems to be her thing, being pink. Her eyes are closed, tears messing up the pastel pink flower makeup situated over one eye. She wears a sparkling pink cheerleader-type dress (complete with the flared skirt), and pink ballerina shoes. The look is completed with a pink rose pinned into her hair.

She more or less embodies the "girly pink phase." Looking at her now, I can't help but feel a little bit of embarrassment surrounding the fact I used to look up to her. But I suppose she appealed to an audience, and though I now find her demeanor repulsively cheerful, her voice was top-notch. And her songs were objectively pretty good. Especially the darker, more honest ones. The upbeat happy ones were fake sentimental garbage, considering how she died...

"K-Kass' final song, 'Shattered Dreams,' was meant to be a goodbye to her fans. A few months earlier, the singer had started to notice that she had difficulty singing, or even breathing-she had a consistent sore throat, making concerts extremely taxing for her. She was later diagnosed with stage three laryngeal cancer. After a long fight-including the removal of her larynx and vocal chords-the beloved idol developed depression and took her own life, heartbroken after the loss of her career and lifetime passion.

"And so, on May 17th of each year, the K-Kass Kill Kancer (4K) foundation brings cancer-and K-Kass-back into the limelight, putting on youth singing contests all around the country. Each contest is accompanied by an assembly on the warning signs and common precursors of cancer, and tickets to the contests go towards..."

The report fades into the background as an obnoxious beeping sound fills the room, mirroring a heavy sensation in my chest. I gasp for breath, my diaphragm refusing to respond no matter how hard I try. The blank white of the tile and walls of my hospital room go in and out of focus, and I try my hardest to call for help...

"Ha..."

Everything is spinning. My body shakes as my chest spasms erratically, and my head feels as though it's going to explode. Blackness is crowding the edge of my vision... marching its way in. The beeping in the room raises to a whine, and I can hear the echo of footsteps in the hallway... I clutch at white sheets, trying to hold on to something, anything, as everything else slips through my fingers.

A door bursts open.

Voices raised, someone calling my name.

Black.

***

I don't know how long I was out for. All I know for certain is that the sky is orange when I wake up, liquid fire pouring its way into the room despite the gauzy white curtains on the window. I'm leaning back against a pile of pillows-someone must have moved me from my previous position-and I feel... tired. Not bad, not suffocating, not achy... but tired. Everything is heavy. My body may as well be made of lead.

I sigh and stare up at the ceiling, eyes exploring the foam tiles that made it up. There are flecks of brown and black in them, and they seem a little rough. There's a few stains on them-one looks like a rocket. A breeze curls through the room, disturbing a portion of my hair and blowing it into my face. Someone must have left the window open. That was careless of them. Fresh air may be nice, but now my face itches and I have no way of making it stop.

I screw my eyes shut and concentrate as hard as I can, trying to command my limp hand to move and brush the hair out of my face. A few months ago, it may have worked. But today, all I get is a tingling sensation and some pathetic trembling. I may have been able to move it maybe a centimeter off the bedspread, but that's the best I'm going to get. Defeated, I sigh as I release my focus, my hand going back into its platonic state of idleness. It seems my extremities are completely gone-I was lucky to roll over even a little earlier.

I open my eyes again, staring up at those stains on the ceiling. There's a smudge on my glasses obscuring one of them-the one that looks like a tree. Maybe when a nurse next comes in, I'll ask her to clear it up for me.

...

I'd been trying to tune out the beeping, but it soon returns once my mind goes quiet. I glance over at the cardiac monitor off to my right. It's attached to the wall along with a few other monitors, and as always, those green lines are taunting me. In the month or so that I've been here, I've learned to read it. My heartbeat seems stable for now. I suppose that's good. My family will have less to worry about if it's stable.

I stare at it for a long while, watching the lines dance. Such a fragile thing, those lines. I can almost imagine touching a finger to it and interrupting it. It's a silly thought. Touching the ECG isn't going to stop someone's heart. And even if it did, what use would it be to me? I'd have to have someone else touch it for me, and who in their right mind would agree to that?

I switch my attention to the clock on the wall. It's about four in the afternoon-Mrs. Thomas should be here soon to check on me. Or maybe dad will show up?

The thought leaves me feeling conflicted. Part of me wants nothing more than to hear his voice again, but the other recognizes that he can't afford to do that. Time is money, and money is something that he needs in abundance. I'm basically a living hospital bill now, after all-good for nothing but racking up red ink.

What was the going rate again? I was eavesdropping on the doctor and him one day, when they thought I was napping. If I recall correctly, every second I stay here is worth about a month of rent on our apartment-

The door to the room bursts open, hitting the wall with the force of the push. I can't help but chuckle quietly to myself, a small smile making its way onto my face. It's impossible not to catch Mrs. Thomas' contagious enthusiasm.

"Hellooooooooo Laurel!" she exclaims, her milk chocolate complexion folding its way into a toothy smile. "How's my favorite patient doin' today?"

Something tells me that every patient is Mrs. Thomas' favorite. But isn't that what makes a good nurse?

"Ahm akay Misses Tahmas," I manage, brow furrowing as I put my focus into speaking. She laughs mightily, her chocolate brown eyes sliding shut for a moment as she guffaws. Larger than life, this woman is.

"Good, good," she says eventually, still beaming. She pushes some of her hair back from her forehead. It's mostly brown, but her age is starting to show up in the occasional grey streak. It's naturally curly, and so whenever she laughs, it often bounces into her way. She notices my stare and gives me a wink. "They haven't convinced me to tie it back yet-told 'em I'd rather die. It's symbolic, you know? Don't want anybody restraining me, boss or no."

"Yoooour beyahnd restrainin Misses Tahmas," I tell her, managing a grin.

"Why thank you, you sweet thing you," she says, chuckling. She turns and pulls her famous cart into the room, the door shutting quietly behind her. Her cart is probably the most colorful thing in the hospital's labyrinth of white-she's covered every inch of its steel frame in stickers. And that's not to mention the cart's contents. From my awkward angle, I can make out a vase of purple flowers of some kind, basic hygiene products, a few sweets, books, games... Mrs. Thomas and her cart are likely my number one reason for not requesting transfer out of pediatrics.

She takes the vase of flowers and sets it on my bedside table, replacing the ones that are starting to wilt. I don't know what kind of flowers they are-if Chase were here, he could probably tell me-but they're beautiful all the same. Their petals are large and smooth, drooping under their own weight. There are streaks of white in the center of each petal, and a few yellow trendles reach delicately up from the center of the flower. Their stems are long, and the vase they sit in is simple transparent glass. No matter how simple though, the flowers stand out like gems with this white room as their background. I stare for a moment, enraptured.

"Pretty things, aren't they?" she asks, cheerfully rearranging them. "I figured you could use some color in here-the white drives everyone crazy after a while."

"Mah thoughtz exxxactlah," I say, smiling again.

"And let's see... what else do we have here? I found some mint chocolates laying around if you want them," she says thoughtfully, picking up a package. "They're your favorite, if I remember right. Am I remembering right?"

"Yesh, buht..."

I bite my lip a little, trying to come to a decision.

"Laurel, let me make this easier for you. Yes, you're getting chocolate," she says with a knowing smile. She opens the pack and breaks off a piece despite my attempts to tell her not to. When she holds it up to my mouth, I sigh slightly before biting into it. I turn away while I suck on it, my face burning. "Oh come now, sweet thing. There isn't any shame in it."

But of course there is, I think bitterly. I can't even feed myself. I'm so useless...

"Hey."

Tears sting my eyes, and I make the effort to blink them back as I stare out the window. It's an effort to swallow, and the chocolate feels strange against my throat. I bite my lip again, trying not to look at the IV stuck in my arm. I know I'll get queasy if I do.

"Laurel, sweetheart."

I close my eyes for a moment, waiting for the emotional waves in my psyche to subside. There'll be plenty of time to cry-now isn't the time for it. Not in front of Mrs. Thomas. When I feel well enough, I open my eyes again and turn my head back towards her, a smile plastered on my face.

"Yesh?"

"Laurel sweetheart, are you really okay?" she asks quietly, her voice quieter than I nearly ever hear it. "It's not good to internalize these things, baby cakes."

"Ahm fahn, Misses Tahmas," I assure her, giving her my biggest smile. "Ahm ahl guhd."

"...Alright Laurel. I won't push you," she sighs. She pulls a hairbrush off of her cart and then pushes a button on a remote on the bed, raising me up. She holds the brush up, as if for my inspection. "May I?"

"...Shur."

She starts to brush through my hair, getting out all the tangles that had amassed throughout the day. She does the same thing in the morning, along with some other basic tasks of that nature. I don't know if this kind of care is standard in hospitals... but if it's not, I'm glad it is here. If not for the tasks themselves, then for the person going through the motions.

"Misses Tahmas?" I start, closing my eyes as I enjoy the feeling of the brush against my scalp.

"Yes?"

"...What hahppend to meh earliahr?"

She's silent for a few moments; long enough for her to complete four, maybe five strokes. Then she sighs, setting her brush back on the cart.

"I guess there's no point in keeping it from you," she says heavily. "You're a sharp one, and you're close enough to being an adult that you should be entitled to your prognosis. You've likely already figured it out by now anyway."

I manage a shallow nod and wait for her to continue.

"...Okay. Your diaphragm failed for the third time this week," she explains calmly, voice measured. It's in times like these that I remember that she's a medical professional. "You nearly asphyxiated. At the rate you're progressing, Dr. Tort projects that your diaphragm will fail completely by the end of next week."

A heavy feeling settles on my chest, my breath catching in my throat. I'd already guessed as much. But for it to be completely gone within a week? My eyes start to sting again, and it takes all my willpower to hold my feelings back.

"I'm so sorry love," she murmurs softly, "but he wants to have you on a CPAP by Friday."

I can't say anything. I can't focus enough to force my lips to move and my throat to constrict. Starting Friday, I won't even be able to breathe on my own. The thought is...

I picture a fish floundering helplessly on a pier.

...terrifying.

"At least it's better than a breathing tube, right?" she mentions, managing a small smile. "Always good to look on the bright side."

I suppose that's true. I manage a nod again, even as I feel my heart slowly turning to lead.

Bright side? What bright side? Death is waiting for me with open arms, and all I can think is that I wish he would come visit sooner.

It isn't long before Mrs. Thomas continues on with her tasks. After so long in the hospital, I've learned to let go of most of my modesty. She changes my clothes and offers a bedpan, checks my IV and takes down my vitals, does a few more intrusive checks... She cleans my glasses at my request, and then finishes by spooning me a small amount of some bland soup. I may be on an IV, but the doctor says I still need to ingest things so my stomach remains functional. I suppose it makes sense, but I'm no doctor.

Mrs. Thomas chats cheerfully throughout the whole process, seemingly unbothered by the fact that most of her words go in one ear and out the other. I stare blankly at some point in the distance, my mind preoccupied with other things than the taste of beans and chicken broth.

Once upon a time, I had wanted to be a doctor. I'd studied hard for my first two years of high school, eager to please and with my head in the stars. I was convinced that I had to get into a top-notch school-Harvard maybe-and that after my bachelors, I'd go on to become some form of doctor. What kind, I hadn't decided yet. Oncology was always interesting, maybe virology.

But whatever the case, I thought the human body was fascinating. I would spend my spare time going through anatomy textbooks and watching videos online about interesting ways people died. Death by forty cookies through refeeding syndrome, a bacterial infection in the blood caused by a simple cavity, mercury poisoning...

And I had the brain to back it up, too. Everyone said so. Laurel was a bookworm. Top of her class. Her PSAT scores were the highest the school had ever seen. She may not have made much of an impression on the population, but her teachers were all too eager to write her recommendation letters. And then... all of that was taken away. Gradually, as though someone had pulled a plug on her luck, she watched the foundation she had built for herself crumble away into dust.

"Laurel."

It wasn't noticeable at first. I was just clumsy-I just bumped into things. When I lost my footing or had trouble playing sports, I just called myself a clutz and moved on. It stayed like that for nearly a year, sleeping under the guise of worsening balance.

"Laurel, sweetheart."

Towards the end of the middle of junior year, the shaking started. When I took my first SAT, I could barely fill in the bubbles correctly. My essay was a mess-my handwriting looked nothing like it used to and I couldn't understand why. I couldn't run to save my life, I tripped over my own feet. I walked funny. My hands and feet would twitch for no reason. I was often in the nurse's office for bruises or cuts. I even cracked my skull at one point-I hit my head on the corner of a desk.

"Laurel, can you hear me?"

It got steadily worse from there. I couldn't grab things correctly. I got tongue-tied often. I found it hard to get up whenever I fell. Everything felt heavy, and slow, and sometimes tingly. In the beginning of senior year-this year-I was rushed to the hospital when I collapsed in the middle of a street, interrupting traffic. Up until that point, I'd denied what was happening. I didn't tell anyone else something was wrong, because I didn't want to believe it. Dad was never home long enough to take notice. Chase is too young and gullible to think I'd lie to him. The people at school didn't care, and my teachers dismissed it in favor of keeping my fragile pride intact.

And it was during that first hospital visit that I was given my tentative diagnosis.

Lou Gehrig's disease.

More commonly known as ALS, or amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.

After being lucky enough to score a perfect 1600 on the SAT, I was given luck of a different kind.

I was a rare case. I was young, female, and a statistically improbable candidate.

As far as the numbers were concerned, this should never have happened to me.

And yet, here I am.

I became one of 20,000 people destined for the grave, unable to command their own muscles.

...

By the time my acceptance letter from Harvard arrived, I could no longer move on my own. And now... I can barely even breathe.

"Laurel!" Mrs. Thomas exclaims, waving her hand in front of my face. I give a start and look up into her concerned face.

"Yesh?"

"You're a spacey one today," she notes, raising an eyebrow.

"Ah Suspose soh."

"Are you sure you have nothing you want to talk about?"

"Yesh."

"Hmm... well, okay then, I suppose. But you know love, I'm always here if you need me-just shout, and someone'll come find me. Alright?"

"Ohkay."

Her eyes don't seem to shine as brightly as they examine my face, the slightest hint of a frown showing in the lines on her forehead.

"...One last thing before I go, Laurel," she says. "Have you thought at all about what you plan on doing tomorrow?"

Her question leaves me cold. I had been trying so, so hard to forget about that. I stare out the window, watching as the sun gives its last dying breath.

"Laurel, I know you don't want to go, but it's your graduation. It happens once in a lifetime-"

"Ah dohnt knoh."

"Laurel, I need to know if you're going so I can make the preparations..."

I remain silent, pretending to be engrossed in the sky's transition from maroon to black. I can hear Mrs. Thomas sigh heavily behind me. She seems to get the message.

...
"I'll see you tomorrow morning, Laurel. Sleep well, sweetheart."

She takes my glasses off my face and puts them on the bedside table so I can sleep more comfortably. Then she's gone. The door clicks shut behind her, a twinge of guilt lighting in me at the sound of it. None of this is her fault-I shouldn't take it out on her. I stare up at the ceiling without a thought in my head. Despite having done nothing but sleep most of the day, I'm exhausted.

The consistent beeping of the ECG slowly disappears, the world fading out into the sweet release of unconscious.

Quick Author's Note:

Hey guys! I thought I'd switch it up from my usual fanfiction and try to make something original. Hopefully this one keeps going for longer than HOJTOS (such a shame, that one had a lot of promise). But anyway, I just want to note here that I'm not a medical professional, and I only have general knowledge of how things like ALS or medical processes work. So don't take any of this as concrete fact; while I did my research, it's not meant to be taken as gospel.

On another note, this is an extremely rough work. It's completely unedited; I'm in the stage I like to call "word barf." It'll likely be a lot different in the final copy. However, I take full ownership of everything in this work, in the thought that I might publish it some day. So before you ask, no, you can't use anything you see in this story. I'm mostly posting it here for constructive critisism.
...
With that out of the way though, I hope it isn't too terrible, and you guys get something out of it. :-)