Short Science Fiction

This is a short story I wrote after reading an article in the New York Times Science. The article was about the increase in mortality in people with health problems and bipolar disorder.

You’d think it was depressing enough to be in a hospital in the first place. Then the doctor comes to your room and informs you that you have a 35 to 200% greater chance of dying than the guy in the next room with the exact same illness. And all because of a couple little mood swings! Seriously, it’s ridiculous. These people have no sense of the proper bedside manner. If I’m gonna kick the bucket in the next day or two, the last thing I wanna hear before I die is defiantly not a prediction that, “yes, you’re probably gonna die soon”. Yeesh, these people went through that expensive med school didn’t they? You’d think they’d know how to treat a guy about to conk out. Not that I’m about to die mind you! No, that’s the furthest thing from my mind. Well, maybe not the furthest, but pretty far I can tell you. I have no intention of dying anytime soon. None. Zero. Zip.
“Well, that’s pretty ambitious of you,” you think, “seeing as you’re in a hospital.”
Pfff. No problem. I only had a little fainting spell, then my overprotective parents panic and send me off to the emergency room. I guess I must’ve fainted again there, or done something, ‘cause the next thing I know, I’m waking up in a hospital bed and the white coated docs are telling me I haven’t got long to live. Utter nonsense if I’ve ever heard any. I’ll show them.

I’ve heard the doctors say I’m extremely lucky to be alive. Not many people survive the kind of trauma I’ve put my heart through. But I’m not expected to live much longer. I’ve heard the statistics, I know the numbers. My chances? Pigs might fly before I walk out of this hospital alive. The doctors don’t know I’m awake. I guess it looks like I’m sleeping, but really I’m not. I’m comtemplating my fate. Honestly, I don’t care. It’s not like my life was all that great to begin with; stuffed full of drugs at every moment of the day, ridiculed by the ‘cool’ kids. Yeah, if the grim reaper comes knocking, I’m not gonna fight. If it’s my time, I’m gonna go.

The doctors were here again. “Please be responsive,” they say. “Don’t pretend to sleep,” beg my parents. Ha. What do they know. I’m not pretending to sleep. I’m plotting. I’m plotting my escape from this cesspit. Being in a hospital is no fun; nothing to do but watch bad TV, nothing to eat except tasteless mush. Yeah, I’m getting out of here and I’m doing it soon.
It would help if I could move. But that’s only a minor setback!!! Besides a lack of certain motor functions I feel great! True, I’m a little woozy from all the meds the doctors have been dripping into my veins, but nothing hurts and my thinking couldn’t be clearer. Actually, I think I’m thinking more clearly now than I’ve been for a good long time. Usually I’m pretty drugged up, but now I’m clean except for the I-don’t-know-what the doctors are dripping into me, and those don’t really count because I don’t control them. They’re like a force of nature, outside influence. Like a tornado or something. Out of my control, not my problem. I can always blame it on the doctors if something goes wrong. Not that anything will! I’ve got a handle on things here.

Why am I still alive? Honestly, I have no idea. I don’t think the doctors know why either. I ‘overheard’ one of them talking with my parents. They’re surprised I’m still hanging in. I’m surprised too. I was ready. I’m still ready. But the end just won’t come. I don’t even know if I’m breathing by myself now. I’ve got so many machines stuck onto my skin I can’t even count them anymore. Or I couldn’t count them even if I could see. Am I too repulsive even for death to want? Now that’s a depressing thought. So horrible that lord death doesn’t want me, won’t take me. I’ll live in a vegetative state for years and years and years, hooked up to a humming machine that breaths, eats, and lives for me. I’ll just ‘exist’ until I’ve got gray hairs and death finally gives in shuffles me quickly into the tiniest corner of the underworld. What a life. What a death.

Coma? That’s a word for old, half dead people. Not a word for me. No way no how no nothing. My fate will be different. I’m sure of it. I’m me. And everything will work out just fine.