Chapter One

Damiano Blackwell looked exactly like his picture and I don't.

I had always read the newspaper which is how I first discovered Damiano Blackwell. The black and white photo captured his smile perfectly and fit structure. He was to inherit the hospital chains his family funds, the title read. From there I read every article about him, downloaded every picture and printed every interview that had been published about the mysteries Damiano Blackwell.

I was immediately absorbed into his picture perfect persona. Everything about Damiano was perfect. His face, body, wealth and especially health.

Let me put this plainly for you, I'm dying.

Treatment for this mysterious illness hasn't been as helpful as the doctors had wished. The sleeping sickness. I can fall into comas at any time my body wishes for short and even long periods of time. No explanation therefore no proper cure.

My parents turned to natural remedies but once I had been in a week long coma they turned to science. Eventually I was transferred to Saint Graces Hospital aka Damiano Blackwell's family's hospital that rested in the midst of the busy city. The story goes Damiano's grandfather was sick and was visited by a Mystery Saint, then cured of all illnesses by the grace of the Saint.

Frank Blackwell, the current owner, at Saint Graces heard of my mysterious illness and recommended that I'd be transmitted. He believed if his dad's mysterious illness could be cured so could mine. Plus Frank remarked the research that be done on me, the experiments and new concoctions of medicines would be groundbreaking. More publicity, more money.

I didn't mind be hooked up to wires at first. It was a win, win. Corporate could do whatever they please, and I could be cured. It was until my doctor told me that if I would fall into another coma the possibility of me not waking up was a great chance. Fear settled into my bones, and flowed through my veins.

Suddenly it was as if I was already dead. I was treated as a lost cause, there's no point when I'm already half in a grave, right?

I even signed some resuscitation papers and constructed a will. My family and friends said goodbye to me each time before I fell asleep, not knowing if I'd wake up or not. My enemy was sleep.

Get well cards were replaced with goodbye cards. My favourite plants to liven up my hospital room were replaced with dainty flowers. I cursed them. I hated flowers because they easily died. Reminding them of me.

One night when I refused to sleep or rest, I broke down, throwing the potted flowers across the room and shattering them to the dirty ground. In a complete rage I destroyed everything, just as everything destroyed me.

I requested only cacti the next day. They lasted longer and died less, only needing a single drop of water to survive. I was in search what was my equivalent to the water, what would make me survive.

I drowned in sorrow in the meantime. I mourned myself. Watched my parents detach themselves from me. They thought that would ease their pain, but what of mine?

I didn't want to be stuck in a clean, white hospital whilst slipping through reality, losing my mind in the process. I wanted to live, explore the world and more.

That's when I requested more and more articles of newspapers. If I couldn't live than I would do so vicariously through newspaper stories. From world news to entertainment, I experienced the world through words on paper. I went across the world from reading and experienced fame and wealth through the entertainment section.

I read more and more filling the room with stacks of newspapers. I indulged myself and my I found my coping mechanism. I mean it was a great distraction, less panic attacks replaced with distraction.

The days bled into one another. Every day's routine looked the same as the last and I've come to learn that's how the next day would go.

It was until I fell into a long coma I had another wake up call that nothing was permanent, everything was temporary.

"Why didn't you pull the plug?" I asked my sobbing parents.

I realized they never would no matter how long of a coma I'd fall into.

Subsequently, I was asked about a wish I wanted. You know, one of those 'you're dying so we'll grant one last wish,' type of thing? Well, I requested to meet Damiano Blackwell. I know, I know what you're thinking. Out of all things why this? My answer was simple in the beginning, he was handsome and I admired him, but through this act I had hoped his wealth and health would pass onto me.

I could do with some wealth, hospital bills aren't cheap and I needed stable health because mine was declining by the minute.

And so I sent my application to request to have a day with him and a nice picture of me before the current state of me. I didn't look like the girl in the picture now. She had long voluminous hair down to the waist, petite figure and had life in her eyes. My hair was regrettably cut short now, gained weight from the medications, and I appeared to be unwell, obviously.

It wasn't long before a date was set to meet Damiano. Frank was more than happy to provide this act of service. Good publicity I assume since they asked cameras to be present within the requested timeframe. I looked in the mirror once learning about that aspect of the meet and greet. I would be in the newspaper, front page.

There was no backing down once it was set in stone - ink and paper, and I grew to tolerate my decision.

Once the date arrived, I put in my best effort into my appearance - going as far as applying red lipstick, that would look presentable in the papers. I straightened my curly hair and dressed in a nice black dress. Mind you it also looked like I was attending my own funeral and maybe I was. Looking back I can confirm this was the start to a new chapter in my book.

His smile was my favourite feature. He was polite and participated in exquisite manners while the cameras were around at least. But once the press left the room, he slouched and replaced his mannerisms for something more comfortable. He asked all about me and I told him everything he wanted to know and more. Might as well, I thought. Damiano even went as far to laugh at my own self deprecating dark humour and even cracked a few jokes himself.

I liked this version far more than the previous one.

The day ended perfectly with a smile on my face this time. I was okay going to sleep and knowing I might not wake up or how long my next coma would be. I began to accept the circumstances and made the best of what I could. I don't know if it was Damiano's doing or it gave the push I needed, I still don't know.

I could honestly say he came back from his own free will to check up on me, without cameras.

Damiano gave me his company in exchange for my memories and stories. He stayed and watched the nurses help me so he could learn what to do in order to help me, he said. And he did learn. Damiano even came back to my room regularly to assist me in my daily tasks and treatment. Soon I relied on him, then came to learn he relied on me as much I leaned on him.

His intentions were pure of heart and genuine interest.

Damiano kissed me the night when he caught me praying for the first time. I don't know what I believe in really, but my attachment to Damiano gave me more fear than before. So with denial and intentions to bargain with a higher power I asked for more time. And time I did get, more than I asked for and more than I wanted. I was given far too much time.

Damiano wiped my tears and held my shaking hands in his.

I feel in love with him when I had all of him and loved him when I had some of him.

The night I found out I was pregnant with his baby girl was when I fell into a permanent coma.

Usually it felt like being put in anesthesia for a scheduled surgery. You fall asleep, feel nothing and wake up when it's over. This time was like astral projecting. I could feel and hear everything but I couldn't respond or react with my body, only my mind. I was immobilized but aware of my surroundings.

I was visited each and every day by everyone I loved and who loved me. I wanted to cry when my parents had, and wanted to scream and breakdown when I Damiano Blackwell had mourned me.

Visits were less and less through time but Damiano still came to see and talk to me about his memories and stories, even when the hospital I rested at had become less and less funded and eventually when my wing of the hospital closed down.

I was abandoned like an old, overgrown graveyard for reasons I know not.

Yet I felt the presence of him still.

Damiano visited me in the abandoned hospital wing I have yet still to uncover why.

I was still pregnant and my belly was still growing in my coma, maybe that's why he visited me. But I think I loved him more for it. It did hurt when he brought another with him. A girl. She was prettier than I. She was everything I wasn't.

I grew jealous and through this, I learned I was able to communicate but in different ways.

It hurt to love Damiano but it hurt more to hate him.

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