Page 249 - Till the Last Breath . . .

people miss them. Like I miss her, and I hardly knew her. We weren’t even

friends; we were room-mates.
She dies. I live. I cry. Where is the sense in that? I didn’t even want to
live. I thought the procedures, the medicines, the doctors and the drips were

nonsense. All I wanted was to get injected with a few extra CCs of morphine
in my drip and I would pass on to the next world, painlessly. I didn’t want

this. I hated pain. I have done everything to run away from it. I used to
numb it by injecting and snorting everything I could find. I hated pain and I

hated life. I get nothing, she gets everything. Nobody wanted this. How do
you think I will feel when I look at her parents, childless, grieving at their

loss? How do you think I will feel when Arman crosses my path? We were in
the same room. Same room! How difficult was it to have our fates switched?
How wrong can God get, if there is one? We were right there. How could he

not see?
Did I find a donor? Yes, I did. It was her. The perfect match. We were

room-mates.
But that’s not the only thing she gave me. Fifteen days after my surgery

when I was shifted back to my room, the bed next to me was empty but for a
little note on top of it. I opened the note and it said:

‘You were the best room-mate ever. Now, we’re 2-2. Don’t waste it.’
I cry.