there is a man lying in a hospital bed. Lights flash all around him, creating a thunderstorm of nurses and sharp tools. The doctors poke and prod and his stomach, leaving stinging indents in his graying skin, hoping their unmagical metal tools will have just enough power to help him out. His name is Aaron, and he could be awake. No one knows where he stands for sure in the race between life and death. Aaron would be a valuable token for death to have, because life has been kind to him. But death is greedy and she wants Aaron back. Hopefully she'll let it go, curl her spiny feet back in like a spider, encasing herself in a web full of her victims, but there's one thing we know for sure, death doesn't leave without taking something.

Machines whir, connected to suction cups plastered on errands face. Mountains rise and fall on the large computers, sending the doctors coated in a metallic white and an uncomfortable shade of blue into a frenzy. They scan Aaron's face, peering through his pale skin and once strong bones to see his brain, encrusted with the memory of the accident. He still lies there, peaceful and still, but a certain stiffness holds him tightly, silently screaming with uncertainty. The higher trained professionals bust down the door standing in a formation as if planned. They float around the room like waiters, urgently running to serve everyone quicker. They don't care about Aaron, they only want their paychecks.

The hospital room is swallowed with sound. Family members wail, holding each other in their own sadness. Pointy objects clink around in the arms of the doctors, and even the button nosed teddy bears that surround Aaron plead with hope. But his football jersey is what tells the story. It still sits on Aaron, whispering the truth to those who listen. It was a big game day, Aaron dove after the ball letting the bleachers scream with excitement, and then a CRACK! He was wrapped in a painful feeling, numbing his muscles and stabbing him in the lungs, leaving him gasping for breaths of air. Next thing Aaron knows, he is in a hospital room.

The noises stop. The only thing you can hear is the slight opening of errands ice, peeling open from the eternal sleep he almost had to suffer through. There's no crying or tools jangling in the pockets of doctors. Aaron tries to rub his eyes, but his arms don't move, neither do his legs. Just then the hospital is enclosed with the feeling of being powerless. The doctors feel powerless, because they couldn't fix Aaron. Aaron's parents feel powerless because they couldn't do anything. But the person who feels worse is the one whose sobs can be heard from miles away.