I've been dying since I was nine years old - no, even longer than that. You see, dying is something that starts at the moment of birth, maybe even the moment of conception. Regardless of when or how you're going to die, every second brings you closer to it.
So when I'm twenty-six, having been "dying" for so many years already, the idea of hope is completely laughable. I don't buy such things as miracles, after seeing someone die every year for the past six years. This child's survival is the only miracle I want.
The doctors say that she is healthy, that she will not inherit my disease. I'm glad; it's one of those few things I can still be glad for.
They still insist on waving hope in front of my face.
"So. Would you like a miracle, Orianna?"
What can I say to that?
I'm human, and I fight for every inch of survival. And somehow, I'm still alive, inside this hospital even if all the doctors and nurses and hell, even all the janitors fled to who knows where?
I've had all the survival I need; and yet there's the bit of me that needs a little more.
"If you'll compete with the others, I'll give you a chance."
And with that, I'm done thinking.
God's voice doesn't come from loudspeakers. I know that much, but I can't help but wonder. I fall asleep one more time in a hospital bed that is not my own, and dreams come to me, vividly.
Dreams of living, and supporting this little girl in my womb.
And maybe dreams of supporting myself, as well.