Twenty-one.
She’s so
young.
Twenty.
She doesn't deserve to go like this.
Nineteen.
The doctors visible through the window look panicked, stricken;
they know as well as I that my daughter is dying, that in a few
minutes she could be… she could be-
Eighteen.
She should never have gone out; I should never have let her
leave the house, not with that boy - that child.
Seventeen.
If only he hadn't been drinking, maybe she’d be at
home right now, not hooked up to a machine to do the breathing
for her. Sixteen.
If only she had offered to drive instead, maybe-
Fifteen.
Oh, my poor little baby; was she scared in the seconds before
they hit the truck?
Fourteen.
I stare through the glass, my hand frozen on it in a silent
plea, and I pray for my little baby girl.
Thirteen.
I pray as the scrubs swarm around her in a crowd so thick that
I can’t even see her fragile form.
Twelve.
All of a sudden, I'm not here anymore; I'm home from
work and she’s running up the drive into my arms again,
her high pitched squeals echoing in my ears.
Eleven.
She’s crying into my shoulder as she tells me about the
fight she had with her friends.
Ten.
She’s crawling into my lap and asking where Mummy
went.
Nine.
One of the doctors suddenly pushes a defibrillator against her
chest and I flinch without taking my eyes off her as her body
jolts off the bed from the charge.
Eight.
Come back to me, baby, come back to me, don’t
leave me-
Seven.
They do it again, but the heart monitor flat-lines.
Six.
Again – my breath catches in my throat as her limp body
shudders from the electric shock, her face expressionless-
Five.
Come back to me, baby, come back, please don’t
go!
Four.
Why is it still flat, why the hell isn't her heart
beating?!
Three.
Come back to me, baby, don’t leave me!
Two.
He looks up at me, examining me as her father, taking in my
frozen frame through the glass, and shakes his head, mouthing
words that chill me to my very core:
One.
“She’s gone.”
Zero.
Please be careful with
alcohol.