The first thing I felt was air flooding my lungs. The second was pain—sharp, burning, coursing through limbs. The third was a hollow emptiness. Two months in a coma. I blinked at the hospital lights, throat as dry as dust. Machines hummed rhythmically. My body felt alien. I tried to move—and panic seized me. I couldn’t raise my head.
A nurse slipped in, eyes widening. “You’re awake. You’ve been in a coma for nearly two months.”
My chest tightened. Two months. And I thought first of those who should’ve stayed.
“My parents?” My voice cracked. “Are they here?”
The nurse’s face flickered. “They signed the visitation forms, but…” She trailed off, then busied herself adjusting my IV. “Rest. You need strength.”
But the truth struck colder than anything. The visitor’s chair beside me was empty. The flowers drooped. The “Get Well” balloon sagged. No fresh cards. No notes. Two months—nothing.
Later, I heard laughter, music, glasses clinking. I asked Maria, the night nurse. She sighed. “Your family booked the hospital’s private ballroom—for your sister’s celebration.”
My heart hollowed. Desperate, I hit the call button. “Take me there.”
“They won’t allow it. You’re too weak,” Maria protested.
I begged anyway. Two orderlies arrived. They wheeled me toward the ballroom. I clutched the thin blanket, trembling, dread rising.
The elevator opened. My world split in two.
There they were—my parents glowing with pride, my sister in a glittering dress and tiara, opening gifts amid applause. Cameras flashed. Guests cheered. And me? A ghost in a gown, watching them celebrate while I had lain broken.
My father saw me first. His face twisted into pure annoyance. He leaned to my mother and hissed, “Why drag her down here? She’ll ruin the photos.”
My mother never glanced up. She waved off the nurse. “Take her back upstairs. We’re celebrating someone who matters. Don’t waste time on someone so useless.”
The words burned. I clutched the blanket as Rachel’s triumphant smile flickered. Then she turned and raised her glass. “Don’t look so sad, dear sister! Not everyone can be a star.”
Laughter echoed. My breath came ragged. My body was weak—but my mind was ice-sharp. In that moment, I realized I hadn’t just awakened from a coma. I had awakened from a lifetime of believing I was worthless. And as they wheeled me away, I vowed: they wanted to call me “useless”? They would soon learn what useless truly felt like.
