The time for death

A day is a year for me, dreadful and long. There is never a time when I am thinking of the future. The ticking of the clock reminds me of the time I am left with. The chirping of the birds is something I hate. Sunrise and sunset is never beautiful. My body growing taller is never a good sign.

I never wished for a single thing, except for time to stop.

Tick. Tock.

I silently pleaded for the death god to tell me how much time I am left with. Not to let me live another day not knowing. Not to let me cling on to false hope.

Brother had died. Aunt had died. Mum is lying on the opposite sickbed, unconscious. Grandma had died. All of them suffered from the same cardiac illness as me.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Every throb in my heart makes me wonder if that's a signal for my death as I clench to the fabric covering my chest and stare at the white ceiling above. Everyday, for an entire month, I stared at the little crack at the ceiling. The same patch of  dried paint. When had I ever stepped out of the boundary of this sickening hospital?

Slowly, I climb out of the bed and saunter to the window with a heart full of dread and courage. The window is my enemy. Through it I saw things I hated to see. The healthy children playing around in the playground and the elderly brisk walking in the park nearby. Would I live for long?

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

A tap on the door. The door creaks open, breaking the silence of the room. Has Death come for me? I whisk my head around, almost in anticipation. The man in a white coat called 'Doctor' comes in with my medical report. He comes for a check up and sighs. Walking out again, he reminds himself to close the door and talks to my father about my condition. Had he even heard of the phrase 'ears behind the walls'?

The last thing I want to hear came out from 'Doctor's' mouth. 

Tick.

I am dying.

Tock.

But when? How long am I going to live this life of preparing-for-death?

Tick.

When would it be my turn?