Don't Make Me Write a Song:

"Please Mia…" I take a deep, shuddering breath. "Don't make me write a song."

She just lies there, still and unmoving, while all the machines attached to her blip and whir and make this irritating screeching noise that would have driven her crazy if she could hear them.

Somehow, I hoped that she would have some kind of reaction. She had asked me before why I never wrote a song about her, and I'd told her that I wasn't good at writing about things that made me happy. I thought she'd remember – I thought maybe this request would force her to fight. But nothing changes. She doesn't move, doesn't wake, doesn't do anything. She is still and pale. The slender fingers I hold within my own are as cold as ever – but now, sitting beside the hospital bed, that old cliché 'cold as death' has a new, sickening significance.

Suddenly I can't stay there for one second longer. After everything I went through to try to get to her, I can't do it. I can't look at Mia and see just a body. I sprint out of the ward, past Willow and Kim and the nurse on duty and down the corridor. I dash into the men's toilets, lock myself into a cubicle with shaking hands and fall to my knees, forcibly emptying the contents of my stomach.

I hate this. I'm sick and shaking and too weak to be by the side of my comatose girlfriend.

Until I saw her, I could pretend it was some kind of dream. When Kim had come to tell me of Mia's accident, after that first shock and instant of pain, I felt as though I were underwater – numb and slow, not able to surface until I could see Mia. Now I have seen her, those emotions return and intensify a hundredfold. I've resurfaced, and I feel like I'm being smashed against cliffs mercilessly. I heave again, gripping the edges of the toilet with white-knuckled fingers.

"Don't make me write a song."

The words play in my head once more, a prayer that she will not put me through the ultimate pain of losing her. "I'm not good at writing about things that make me happy", I had told her. My songs came from strong emotions, but never happiness. Anger, fear, sadness – these are the feelings that inspire my writing, make me feel as though I need to write or I'll explode. But kneeling on the cool blue tiles, it dawns on me that I am in more pain now, at this moment, than I have ever been in my life. And if I don't get these feelings down now Mia could die without me ever having written a song for her.

I stand shakily, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and flush the toilet. I step out of the cubicle and walk towards the basins, splashing water over my face. I stare at my reflection – hollow cheeks, limp hair and haunted eyes – and wonder if I could get myself admitted to the ER after all.

I turn my back on my reflection and leave it behind me. I need to write a song.

…

Thanks for reading, hope you liked this.

Camelotpointe x