Tessa stepped closer to the machines.
She wrinkled her nose.
“That sound is annoying,” she said. “You know they only keep all this on you because you act helpless.”
I turned my head just enough to look at her.
That was all I could do.
My fingers twitched under the blanket, but they would not rise. My chest hurt too much. My leg felt locked in place. I wanted to tell her to stop. I wanted to tell my mother to look up, to be a mother for one clean second.
I did nothing.
Sometimes survival looks like weakness from the outside. From the inside, it feels like counting every breath and deciding which one is worth spending.
Tessa’s hand shot out before I understood what she was reaching for.
She grabbed the cord.
And yanked.
The screen went black.
The beeping stopped.
The room went quiet in a way that did not feel peaceful. It felt final, like something had been erased and everyone was waiting to see if I would be rude enough to mention it.
