I know because the atmosphere surrounding me seems different, and because I hear Mom and Dad talking. They say, “Long-term care center,” and “More intensive therapeutic help.” This means only one thing: I'm not getting better. Oh, my body is healing, because they've removed my casts. But my mind is still trapped, held captive by a demon called Coma. It rules me. I can't break free. And I've tried. Yes, I've tried. Memories haunt me. I see the bright lights over my shoulder. It's like a film loop, going round and round, showing the same pictures every time, until I could scream. But I can't scream. I can't control anything. Once, as I float to the surface of my reality, I hear Mom and a doctor talking. His deep voice rumbles. “… insert a G-tube. More comfortable for her … a simple surgery.” “We want what's best for her.” “… best for long-term care.” I understand then the doctors are losing hope that I'll wake up.
