I sit, surrounded by the pale blue walls, and stare at the vase of flowers on the bed side table. The green stems bend over the edge of the clear glass lip. The petals are beginning to wilt. It has been about three weeks, maybe more, maybe less, since that horrid day, and these are the last flowers to live. Its funny how much people seem to worry at first. Then you slowly seem to fade from their conscious. Its not that they stop caring, it just that they stop remembering to care. 
“Hey sis. It is snowing today. Wonder if we'll actually have a white Christmas this year.”
Silence answers me.
“You don’t have to get me anything this year. I only have one little thing for you. Remember last year, dad finally knew what to get mom. She actually seemed kinda excited. Oh, and remember how we ate all of that candy from our stockings, while watching those movies downstairs. Awful decision, but so worth it.”
I close my eyes trying to hold in the tears. It not worth it, and for what seems like the eightieth time that morning two streams of salty tears run down my cheeks. I look at my sister, lying in the hospital bed. A breathing tube is coming out of her throat. Wires connect her to different machines. I hear a constant beat. She is alive, but I know the truth. It is only these machines living for her right now, not her own heartbeat and deep breaths.
A nurse comes into the room. One does about twice in an hour to check the monitors and write down the information they hold. They often tell me the stats. “She’s stable,” they would try and reassure me. It never works. I see their pitied looks as they leave the room. I can feel the fatigue weighing down on me. When was the last time I really got a good night sleep? Have I had a full, balanced meal in these past few weeks? I pull my hands into my old sweatshirt sleeves, and hug my knees. There is half a mug of lukewarm coffee on the table next to me. I pick it up a take a sip. Right now, I desperately need my own life support.