In the distant, I heard feminine weeping. Delicate sounds of wheezing and sniffles overlapped with the overwhelming beeps of IV machines. A hoarse but comforting voice calmed the weeping woman while simultaneously massaging her back in comfort, indicated by the harsh noise of friction between his calloused hands and her rigid clothes.

"Honey," the man reassured, "we have to let him go. The doctors all say that there's nothing more they can do. Baby, it's time."

"No," was all she muttered in response.

"Honey…" he trailed off in defeat.

His feet shuffled towards her; I no longer felt a soft palm clenching my arm. I heard her whimper in his arms; her strained cries being suffocated by his tight grip. He grunted, trying to hold back on his own tears.

"Come on, Honey, let's go home. We have a lot to plan."

Two sets of footsteps grew softer and more distant. I was alone in the room again. The only thing keeping me company was the IV drip.

The noise was broken by the squeaking sounds of rubber soles and a Stethoscope clanking on a wooden clipboard. I felt perfectly manicure fingers graze against my arms, covering my chest and head with a thin sheet, still allowing me to breathe easily.

Heavy footsteps followed the nurse into my room. With haste and clanking sounds, I could feel them removing the IV needles from my veins. The sudden pull of the needles from my flesh stung, but I couldn't scream out in pain. I couldn't refute what they were doing to my body.

Once all the needles were pulled out of my body, the brutes unhooked the break on my bed and began to push me across the busy hospital.

Through my closed eyelids and the thin sheet over my head, I could see the obscene ceiling lights. I saw red, orange, and yellow patches burst in a supernova light under my eyelids. To the right of me, I could hear nurses shouting for doctors while pumping a patient's chest, creating a crackling sound from the breakage of his ribs.

The brutes raised my body like it was a trash bag and dumped me into a elongated locker. I laid on the cold metal drawer for days, weeks, months. I couldn't really remember anymore. Time became meaningless during my stay at Hôtel de Morgué. I could scream for help. I couldn't bang on the small door beneath my feet. I couldn't scratch my itchy nose. I couldn't cry for my parents. . . I laid, a corpse.

I thought I'd never see the morning light of the ceiling above until the beautiful sound I was awaiting for arrived. The beautiful sound of my cold metal drawer sliding open, gives me relief of my isolation.

However, I celebrated too soon. They transferred me from my metallic hotel room to another hellish titanium box. As if I was luggage, they hooked my box to the back of a truck. The decades old truck let out toxic fumes. It choked my lungs, yet I couldn't cough. I couldn't keep the black smoke from entering my lungs. It was a specific kind of sadism by the truck.

For a few hours, I laid once again in the dark isolation of a box. It was a dark purgatory. I prayed for someone, anyone, to open the box and just. . . speak to me. I know I couldn't talk back, but I just needed someone to fill the deafening silence.

The creaking of the bolted doors was welcomed. I was being moved again. I didn't know where, but as long as there were people there, I would be more than content.

Finally, I felt sunlight, real sunlight again. Not the synthetic lights of hospital ceilings but real sunlight warming my icy skin, even if it through a window panel. I smelt gardenias flooding the beautiful, bright room. I felt alive for the first time in a long.

I felt intrusive hands remove the sheet over my body and dress me properly with rough cloths. Next, the sliding of silk filled my ears. It felt like a noose tightening around my neck. Instead of cold metallic box, the hands laid me me in a mahogany box, decorated with soft padding and a feather pillow. The smell of wood was faint over the strong aroma of gardenias, but I could still smell it.

At last, someone spoke. It sounded like the man who stood comforting the woman in my hospital room. He spoke about my life, my struggles, how much people were going to miss me, how much I meant to him and his wife.

Oh, my God.

I finally realized. This was my funeral. . .

With a thunk they closed my casket. I felt my casket slowly elevating and locked into place to machine. The machine began to hum, and as it did, the temperature in my casket began to slowly submerge. I heard soil being throw atop my casket, along with gardenias masquerading the earthy scent.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I'm not ready. Please, God, help me. Please, someone, hear me! I'm not dead!