The ICU smelled like death wrapped in antiseptic. I sat motionless beside Mom's bed, her hand limp and cold in mine, the heart monitor's steady beep the only thing proving she was still here. Tubes disappeared under the thin hospital gown, and her chest rose and fell in shallow, mechanical rhythm. She looked fragile, nothing like the woman who once shielded me from Dad's belt with her own body.
Every breath she took felt like a fragile promise that could break at any second. I kept staring at her face, searching for any flicker of movement, any sign that she was still fighting. The sterile white walls pressed in on me, suffocating. The smell of disinfectant burned my nose, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood and medicine. I wanted to scream, to shatter the silence, but I stayed frozen, gripping her hand like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to this world.
