The light hit his eyelids—too bright.
Something felt of like everything was fake even him
"Why does everything hurt?"
His lungs hitch, a wet rattle in his chest. He tries to sit up, but his arms—why are they so thin?—tremble and collapse. A cough rips through him, metallic and hot. He stares at the splatter of red on the pillowcase.
his movement felt of like his body wasnt his sort of like an out of body experience while being in a body.
Then he sees his hands
Pale. Too pale. Like paper stretched over bird bones. He yanks at the hair hanging in his face—it was white and fine as spider silk.
"What is this?"
Trapped in this fragile, albino child's body, lungs feeling clogged, legs twisted like wilted stems.
"This has to be a dream."
But the pain he was in told him otherwise. He had never been able to lucid dream before, but he'd always heard if you pinch yourself you wake up. By that same logic, if you were in pain at the start of the dream, would you not also wake up? Sighing to himself, he muttered, "What is this, Philosophy class?"
He tried recalling his latest memory before being here. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep in his economics class. Looking around, he found himself in a fancy-looking room with a big, unnaturally comfortable bed in the middle of the room. There were 3 doors he noticed.
A woman's voice from one of the doorways caused him to snap his head in the general direction: "Ezra, baby, you okay?"
He unconsciously opens his mouth to answer—but whose name is that? He could only assume he was Ezra, but who was that calling him?
"I'm fine," he replied, gritting his teeth as he shoved himself upright—bad idea. Fire lanced through his arms, his spine protesting with a crackle of joints. His hip screamed as his legs slid off the bed.
A fresh cough bubbled up, bloody and mucus coating his tongue. Definitely not Econ 103.
He limps to the mirror (cane propped nearby, already part of this life's furniture). The albino boy staring back has violet shadows under his eyes, and a torso ribbed like a xylophone.
Staring in the mirror, I didn't like what I saw. I wouldn't accept that this is me, this is real. I looked into the eyes of my reflection and then—pain like nothing I had felt since waking up.
Memories began flowing into my mind at what felt like 20x speed. Woke up again on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
What the actual fuck.
That was the only thought that ran through my mind.
The situation was practically as fucked as it could possibly be.
Why, you might ask?
I was sick—not a mild cold sick, either. I was blessed with the "likely not make it to 25" sick.
"I have cystic fibrosis with bronchiectasis."
Which means:
My lungs are basically clogged with sticky, glue-like mucus.
Every breath is a battle—imagine trying to suck a milkshake through a coffee straw.
The constant infections have scarred my airways, so now they're stretched-out, floppy, and prone to bleeding. Hence the bloody coughs every morning.
My FEV1 (how much air I can forcibly exhale in one second) is already at 58%. Which means I'm losing lung function faster than a car with no oil.
"I have Ullrich congenital muscular dystrophy."
Which means:
My muscles are defective from birth, weakening year by year.
Right now, I can walk with a cane, but my legs wobble like a newborn giraffe's.
By my teens, I'll need forearm crutches because my shoulders and hips will be too weak to stabilize me.
Eventually, my diaphragm will weaken too. Which means I'll need a ventilator just to breathe.
"I developed pulmonary hypertension."
Which means:
My lungs are so damaged that blood struggles to flow through them.
My heart's right side is working overtime, and it's failing.
I get dizzy just standing up. My lips and fingertips turn blue if I walk too far.
The 5-year survival rate is 50%. Which means this might be what kills me before the CF or CMD get their turn.
"I have osteoporosis."
Which means:
My bones are as brittle as a 90-year-old's.
I've broken ribs from sneezing.
A fall could mean a shattered femur, a snapped wrist, or worse.
Which also means no sports, no roughhousing, no jumping—just a life of careful, calculated movements.
"I'm antibiotic-resistant."
Which means:
The last time my port-a-cath got infected, the strongest IV antibiotics barely worked.
Next time I get pneumonia? They might not have anything left to treat me with.
Which means a simple infection could turn into sepsis. And sepsis could turn into a death sentence.
"I'm albino."
Which means:
My skin burns in five minutes of sunlight.
My eyes are hypersensitive—bright lights feel like knives.
Kids stare. Adults whisper. And I stick out like a ghost in a world full of color.
I stared at the ceiling. I could only be impressed by the original Ezra's strength—his willpower. He had gone through so much, and yet he was still not only a cheerful child, but he never even complained about the circumstances.
The Worst Part?
He understood it all.
The doctors murmured about "progressive decline," and he wanted to scream—he didn't fully know what all of it meant. But the kid knew it wasn't good. He knew with a certainty that he didn't have as much time as other children.
A kid who definitely shouldn't be thinking:
One of the last thoughts the original Ezra had was,
"I'll be dead before I'd have graduated."
While coming to terms with the situation, rage began to set in. Wtf was this? Some sick joke? Why was he here? What type of asshat would... before he could continue down that line of thought, he realized there was a faint noise of sobbing near his bedside.
He turned his head to see Ezra's? My? Our? Mom. She was sitting at the side of his bed. It appeared as though she had been crying for a while—so long that she had stopped attempting to wipe the tears with the sleeves of her shirt and just let them fall off her face.
"Mom," I muttered in a slightly raspy voice.
At the sound of my voice, her head shot up before she hurriedly wiped her face, then began rapid-firing questions:
"Ezzy baby, are you—? How is the pain? Where does it hurt the most? What do you remember before you fell?"
Staring at his mother's still-wet sleeves, he felt a mixture of emotions—foremost among them was guilt. Then confusion. He shouldn't be feeling guilt—at most he should be feeling pity—and yet when he stared at his mother's face, all he could think about was the happy life she could have led had it not been for him.
Then there was rage.
Not toward the god that had done this to him, but aimed at Ezra himself. His soul was influencing his emotions.
After the realization, everything around him faded. He raised his hand—now armed with Ezra's memories—he was no longer affected as much by the pain. After all, for a large portion of Ezra's life, the pain was there.
He balled his hand into a fist and began beating on the side of his head.
Thud.
"Get."
Thud.
"Out."
Thud.
"Of—"
Before he could hit his head again, his mother practically lunged to grab his arm.
"Ezra? What's wrong? Why are you hitting yourself?"
He screamed, groaned, growled, and vigorously yanked on his arm.
"STOP! STOP TRYING TO CONTROL ME! LET ME GO! GET OUT!"
Tears fell from his eyes as his struggles died down. He looked up once more, staring into his mother's eyes for a few seconds before falling asleep again.
When he woke up, he was somewhere else.
He glanced around, trying to gauge where he was. It looked to be an endless black plain. Cracks split the sky. Parts of the ground looked melted together.
He stood there in confusion—completely naked and transparent from the waist down.
A few seconds later, he felt rather than heard crying behind him. He turned and saw...
Nothing. Just more endless space.
Feeling it was the only clue in what appeared to be a hopeless situation, he began walking.
While walking, he realized time was off here. He felt like he had been walking for so long it could no longer be determined—and yet, it also felt like he had just started walking a few seconds ago.
The scenery was the same everywhere, so he couldn't use it as a marker. The only indication something was happening was that the feeling was getting stronger.
Then he noticed something floating in the distant sky.
Keeping his pace, he moved in that direction until he could roughly make out:
A ball-like shape.
Then the egg-like form of the object.
Then hair.
Colors here were weird here—everything was black and white.
It wasn't until he was practically standing under it that he realized it was a small child.
Staring for a few seconds, he came to the conclusion:
It had to be Ezra.
He called out the boy's name.
The crying stopped.
Then ball uncurled
Ezra stood floating in the sky, staring at him. Now that he could see the boy's face clearly, he noticed cracks running all the way down to his belly button.
"No. No! NO! NO NO!" The child's voice echoed unnaturally. "THIS IS MY PLACE! THIS ISN'T FAIR! YOU CAN'T KICK ME OUT AGAIN!"
He asked in a hollow voice, "Ezra... was it you who was messing with my mind?"
"It's not yours," Ezra muttered.
With that, the quiet rage that had been building for seemingly no reason dissipated—like a bucket of water thrown on fire. He sighed and sat heavily on the ground.
"What is this place?" he asked.
Ezra looked at him with mild annoyance before replying, "It's a playground, obviously." The boy shrugged while slowly twisting in midair. "Why does it look like this" he asked "Dunno. All I know is you can do whatever you want here. I can even walk," Ezra said as he began descending to the ground. "And I'm not sick either."
When his feet touched the surface, he took a few experimental steps.
"Why were you crying?"
Ezra paused mid-step before continuing to walk. "Because you made Mom sad. And now Mom's gonna be even more sad."
"You said I kicked you out before. What did you mean?"
"When you came, I got sent here. Then I could only watch." Ezra stopped suddenly, staring at him intently before asking eagerly, "Are you here to take me back?"
"Heh. Sorry kid, no can do. I—"
"Then why are you here?" Ezra's voice echoed unnaturally again. "Are you here to make fun of me?"
"Uuhrrahh! You're just like everyone else! You don't like me because I'm sick!" Ezra's voice grew even more echoey, distorting in the strange space.
"Hey kid, I can't get you out 'cause I don't know how to get out myself. I didn't even want to be here. I had my life practically set, and then—boom—I woke up in some sick kid. So yeah, I want to find a way out of here too. But I just don't know how. How 'bout this—we have a truce? Two brains are better than one, right?"
"Fine. What's your name anyway?" Ezra said.
"Clark Reeds," he replied.
"Okay Clark," Ezra said while spitting in his hand and reaching it out for a handshake. "Truce," he declared.
A smirk slid onto Clark's face. He liked this kid. He put his hand out. Ezra reached out too, but the moment they touched—
Gasp!
He woke up in a hospital bed with belts strapping down his arms.
BRO this one was absolute hell to make ngl I needed to do a lot but it was pretty fun the ending feels kinda rushed but it was dragging ngl. 1974 words yippee clapp it up. nah i dont feel like doing this again any time soon i have some plots lined up though so the show will go on.