Treatment

I let out a breath, shaking my head as Naria went about her routine. Checking my vitals, adjusting the IV, doing all the little things that let her pretend I was just another patient instead of a ticking fucking time bomb.

And yet, the moment she turned away, my mind kept spiraling.

Because fuck, it pissed me off.

How people took life for granted.

Every single day, we go through the motions. We wake up, we procrastinate, we waste time, we chase fleeting pleasures. We act like we have all the time in the world.

"Oh, I'll do it tomorrow."

"I'll fix it later."

"I'll start being serious someday."

Someday.

That goddamn lie we tell ourselves to make us feel better about doing nothing.

But that's not how life works, is it?

It doesn't wait. It doesn't pause.

One second, you're fine. You're planning your future, you're laughing, you're making dumb choices because who cares? You'll fix it later, right?

And then—

Bang.

It all falls apart.

Life doesn't ask for permission before it rips the ground out from under you. It doesn't give you a warning before it throws you into the fire and lets you burn.

One accident. One sickness. One bad fucking day. That's all it takes.

And yet, people still walk around like they're invincible. Like there's always gonna be a tomorrow.

Newsflash.

There's not.

This thing we call life? It's a fragile, messy, unpredictable piece of shit. And at any moment, it can decide to fuck you over completely.

I exhaled sharply, closing my eyes for a second.

And I knew that better than anyone.

I still remember that damn fucking day.

The day everything fell apart. The day my body betrayed me.

One single lump of cells is all it takes.

A tiny, insignificant mistake in the grand scheme of biology. A cluster of useless, defective, cancerous cells that decided to fuck me over completely.

That's it.

That's all it took for my life to spiral into this rotting damp corner of existence.

One day, I was fine. Living, moving, breathing without a second thought. Walking around like every other idiot who assumes they'll see tomorrow.

The next, I was on the ground.

Collapsed. Body convulsing, head spinning, breath hitching like I was drowning on dry land.

And now—here I am.

Shackled.

Tied to this bed. These machines. This goddamn slow decay.

And what can I do?

Nothing.

No matter how bright I was, no matter the talents I had, no matter how many times people told me I was an exception—

None of that fucking matters now.

Because I'm here.

Because this is it.

And no amount of strength, intelligence, or raw fucking hatred is going to change that.

Naria gave me a look. The kind of look that meant, Brace yourself.

I knew what was coming next.

Then, the pain followed.

A sharp, familiar sting shot through my arm as she inserted the needle, the slow push of medication burning its way into my veins.

Another nurse entered the room, moving behind her without a word. They were always like this. Quiet. Efficient. Distant.

I felt it.

The dull ache spreading through my body. The slow, creeping discomfort that followed every one of these treatments. It was nothing new. It wasn't excruciating anymore.

Just monotone.

Just another thing.

I sat there, letting it happen. Letting the pain settle into my nerves, letting my body shudder involuntarily, letting my breathing go shallow for a moment.

And for what?

Why was I even doing this?

For my family?

Fucking joke.

They left me here.

Dumped me in this sterile, lifeless place like a broken thing they didn't know how to deal with. It had been, what? Nearly a month since the last time anyone even bothered to visit?

So, certainly not for them.

Then for what?

For myself?

Another joke.

I wasn't living.

I was just existing.

Drifting between treatments, between hospital beds, between nurses who acted like they gave a shit but would forget my name the second I was gone.

There wasn't a point.

Live or don't live. It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

So I just sat there, letting it happen. Letting the pain come and go.

After what felt like an eternity—time stretched thin between the slow drip of medication, the quiet movements of the nurses, and the dull hum of fluorescent lights—Naria finally stepped back.

The other nurse had already left without a word. Probably had better things to do than waste time in this room, tending to a corpse that just refused to die.

Naria adjusted her gloves, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in her uniform before reaching into the small tray she had brought with her.

"I'm leaving your pills here," she said, her voice as neutral as ever. "If you start feeling unstable emotions, take them immediately."

I scoffed. There it was.

One of the things I hated the most.

That clinical detachment. That scripted professionalism.

That subtle way of saying, 'Here, this will keep you from being a problem.'

I didn't respond, just stared at the bottle as she placed it down on the small table beside me.

And, of course, it was already starting.

The side effects.

The familiar shift in my head. The gnawing irritability.

The sensation I called the 'desire to argue.'

It was a weird, fucked-up feeling. Not quite anger. Not quite frustration. Just this itch—this compulsion to lash out. To disagree. To find something—anything—to challenge.

It always happened after treatment. Like clockwork.

Like my body needed to fight something—even if it was just words.

And now, as Naria stood there, finishing up her little checklist, I could feel it bubbling under my skin.

That urge to push back. To poke and prod just to see what would happen.

Maybe I should just take the damn pills.

…

But where's the fun in that?

----------A/N----------

 I am participating in WPC. If you have any power stones, that would help a lot! 

Thank you for reading, though. 

Just a warning again, the main character may not be for everyone.