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He brought a new marble today, as he always does. It’s pretty, glittering in the light, eager to play with the others.
Their bag is dangerously full, more difficult to close after each of his visits. Once, he promised he would have me out of here before I had more marbles than space. I believed him, then, when he held my hand and I was afraid of sleeping here on my own.
He still holds my hand, and I’m still afraid, but I don’t believe it anymore. He tries, gives everything he has towards a cure, but I think we both know the truth.
The marbles are nice, shimmering in all the colours of the rainbow. Sometimes, I think I can see them flying, like bubbles. He used to love bubbles, born of magic and soap. He would stand between them, dishes forgotten, creating more and more bubbles, laughing and dancing with them, sun shining on my little domestic memory. It’s all I have left, memories of happier times.
I know I could spend a lifetime like this, cables and tubes binding me to bed, the man I love visiting as often as he can, bringing gifts of marbles. I could grow old like this, older than average.
I can’t do that to him. It’s tearing him apart, seeing me like this, being unable to help me, all he has to offer cheap glass and cramping hands. I love him, and sitting at my sickbed is not a future I want for him.
The Healers whisper, quiet where he can’t hear; he would be upset. They suggest endless sleep, my cure. But I won’t be sleeping; it’s my turn to watch over him.