I was hardly conscious.
Between reality and dream, my consciousness was wavering, thoughts intermittently gleaming.
The sterile hospital air carried the familiar scent of antiseptic and artificial cleanliness – a smell I'd grown too accustomed to over these past months.
Then came a stuttering voice, jolting me from half-assed hypnagogia, causing my eyes to widen.
"Y-Yo?"
Looking at the incoming voice, my eyes twitched seeing the man. 'This fucker…'
"Where are the pomegranates that I asked you to bring?" I questioned my so-called caretaker, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
He shifted uncomfortably, avoiding my gaze. "A-Avocados taste better, you know?"
"..."
'Fuck Avocado.'
Don't get me wrong, I don't hate it, and I don't complain if it is part of a meal. But…
Every day seems to be torture.
"Fine, I am starving." I conceded, my voice heavy with resignation. Nine in the morning, and my stomach had been empty since yesterday afternoon. The hunger pangs were starting to feel like unwelcome old friends, but familiar nonetheless.
"I'll have your meal ready in just a moment..." he assured me, bustling around the small hospital room like a displaced honeybee. Then his face lit up with that childlike enthusiasm that made it so hard to stay angry at him, "…Check out what I bought! A street vendor offered this for a low price, and I was tempted to purchase it. Do you know why? This shines brightly and is visually stunning."
He brought out a bowl like hardened clay from the basket of fruits (dominated, of course, by those dreaded avocados) with a proud grin on his face.
The hardened clay was shaped like a small, shallow bowl with a pointed end to hold a wick. The clay body was unglazed and earthy brown, giving it a rustic, handcrafted feel.
When filled with oil and lit, the wick casts a warm, steady glow. The flame itself was gentle and golden.
I couldn't help but sigh. Here I was, confined to this white-walled prison, while he got to wander the streets finding treasures like some modern-day magpie.
Twenty-four years old and still single. All these good looks wasting away in a hospital bed.
The thought wasn't entirely self-pitying – the nurses had mentioned more than once that I could be a model if it weren't for... well, everything else.
"The doctor says you're just a hair's breadth from beating this cancer, Wixx! Don't lose hope now." Concern painted every feature of his face, from his furrowed brow to the slight tremor in his lower lip. For all his faults, he cared – probably more than any professional caretaker would have.
"I'll definitely beat the cancer," I assured him, while silently adding, 'and finally get myself a girlfriend.'
Usually, after a heavy meal, I'd go to sleep, letting the exhaustion of existing pull me under like a heavy blanket. But today was different. Something about the morning light, or maybe the way that clay lamp had caught it, stirred something in me. Instead of surrendering to the familiar comfort of my bed, I found myself drawn to the garden.
"Are you sure you should be walking around?" my friend – or my caretaker hovered nearby, hands outstretched as if expecting me to collapse at any moment.
"Fresh air won't kill me," I replied, "Besides, I need to build my strength back up. I will go alone and have a peaceful air."
…
The garden was designed as a serene and therapeutic escape, inviting patients and visitors to escape the clinical environment for a moment.
There is a small fountain in the middle adding a soothing rhythmic sound from where the water cascades gently making ripples in the surrounding pond.
Careful landscaping is accompanied by a selection of plants, evoking the garden to be a pleasant and uplifting place, for those seeking comfort and solace in nature.
Lost in thought, Wixx had been scrolling mindlessly through his phone when a familiar voice pulled him back to the present.
Ana, a six-year-old burst of sunshine with bouncing pigtails and a bright smile, walked over to Wixx who sat on a bench.
"Hey, Mr. Wixx! Are you still here watching flowers grow?" Ana swings her arm happily, her hospital gown somehow looking more like a princess dress on her small frame.
The sight of her made Wixx's chest feel lighter. He chuckled, pocketing his phone, "Hello, Ana! Of course, someone has to keep an eye on them. What would they do without me?"
"They'd probably be so bored without you!" She replied seriously. "My mommy says you have the best stories to tell."
"Well, your mum's a smart lady!" Wixx smiled, then said, "I am sure she can tell who brings sunshine to this garden." And tapped her nose.
Ana giggled, a sound pure enough to make the flowers lean closer. "That's me! And I know all the prettiest flowers here, too. Want me to remind you?"
Wixx's face transformed with exaggerated surprise, "Remind me? Oh, I could never forget! But I'd love a refresher from the expert herself."
Ana took his hand with a big grin and led him toward a bed of bright orange marigolds.
"Look, these are still my favorite. They're like little suns that never get tired." Ana's eyes sparkled as she gazed at the flowers
"And they're brighter every time you show them to me, you know." He meant it.
She leaned in close, cupping her hand around her mouth as if sharing state secrets. "That's because I tell them secrets! Happy secrets, so they grow extra bright."
"Well, thank you, Ana. You've got the magic touch, I think. Makes me feel better already." The warmth in Wixx's smile reached his eyes, and for a moment, he truly did feel lighter.
As Ana chatted and toured with Wixx, a nurse walked over with a gentle smile, ready to take her back inside. "Alright Ana, it's time to let Mr. Wixx rest now," she said, placing a soft hand on Ana's shoulder. "Your mom's waiting for you."
Ana's face fell slightly, but she nodded with the grace of someone well-versed in hospital routines. "Okay..." Turning back to Wixx, she managed a small smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Wixx. Don't let the flowers get lonely!"
"I won't, Ana. You make sure to tell them more happy secrets tomorrow, alright?"
"Promise! Bye!" Her grin returned full force, a final gift before departure.
As the nurse led Ana away, her small hand was waving until she disappeared around the corner. Wixx's own hand slowly lowered, the smile on his face softening as the nurse and Ana disappeared down the garden path.
He returned to his phone for a while, thumbing through social media without really seeing it.
Eventually, drawn by some inexplicable urge, he pushed himself up from the bench and made his way to the marigold bed.
Wixx reached out, letting his fingers brush against the petals. They were warm from the sun, vibrant and alive – just as Ana had described them, like tiny suns.
BOOM!
The sound hit like a physical force, shattering the garden's serenity. Wixx's head snapped up, his hand freezing mid-caress against the marigold petals.
…
The monotonous sound of electrical machines chiming in the melody to one's ear, if not, a buzzing noise.
Machines were constantly making a melodic sound that was scarcely audible if one did not concentrate.
BOOM!
Wixx's head snapped up at the sound, his hand still hovering over the marigold petals.
The building where he supposedly had his cabinet – erupted in a catastrophic display of orange and red. The blast wave rolled across the building from his cabinet like a visible wall of force.
Chaos erupted as the ground-shaking explosion reverberated throughout the area.
The suddenness and intensity of the explosion caused immediate fear and confusion within people near the area.
Time slowed to a cruel crawl.
Wixx saw every detail with brutal clarity; the expanding fireball, the debris riding the shockwave, and the terrified expressions of nurses, patients, and visitors running away in slow motion. His mind registered each fragment of the scene in perfect, pristine detail.
The sound came last. Not the explosion itself, but something deeper, more primal. A pressure wave of such magnitude that it transcended mere noise. It was as if the air itself had become a solid thing, hammering into his chest with physical force.
His heart, already racing from the visual stimulus, couldn't handle the dual assault.
The surge of adrenaline, the overwhelming sensory overload, the sheer impossible intensity of it all – it was too much for his system to process.
But Wixx didn't feel pain.
Instead, there was only a moment of perfect clarity, a crystal-clear understanding.
His last thought wasn't of the cancer he'd fought so hard against. It wasn't of family or unfulfilled dreams or even the girlfriend he'd never have. Instead, his final moment of awareness fixed on something beautifully, tragically simple.
"Marig–"
The word died unfinished on his lips. His phone slipped from nerveless fingers, striking the ground with a crack that would never reach his ears. The screen still glowing with an unread message that would never matter, perhaps something life-changing – but it no longer mattered.
Nothing did.
The official report would later state 'cardiac arrest induced by acute stress response.' In Layman's terms: Wixx hadn't just died from the shock – he had died from the storm of sensory overload, a moment where reality became too real, too fast, and too loud.
His body was found still standing, eyes wide open, as if frozen in that final moment of absolute comprehension. In the end, it wasn't the explosion that killed him –
It was the sheer impossibility of processing its existence.
***