Sickness

“The ocean is just outside,” Grandfather wheedles. “You should go catch some sun. You’re pale as a ghost.”

“I recently almost became a ghost,” I reply, not looking up from the biochemistry textbook. He bought it because it’s the only thing I’ve asked for.

“You’ll get sick, cooped up inside,” he tries one last time.

I’m sick from the coma. I’m sick with grief. I’m sick of people, but nature depresses me worse than society does.

Nature is happy and vibrant, and doesn’t care that the last time I let it call me out, it killed whom I loved most.