This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

I sat down on the grey carpet. There was a round stain from the coffee mug that had sat there for days. It would probably never come out.

He was sleeping, but that was okay. He slept a lot lately, and I reached out to run my fingers over his stomach, like I used to when I was a kid. But instead of the normal shirt and jeans, the soft fabric of a hospital gown met my fingers. It was cold, and I wondered why they would make something so important so fragile.

The only noise through the silence was a short beeping from the corner of the room, monitoring his vital signs. The steady pulse of the machine resonated with my heartbeat, and at times I felt as if the two were one - my own pulse keeping him tied down to this world.

The rosary in my other hand felt as cold as ice. I used to think it was strange that people would only turn to God when they needed a crutch. I eventually realized that people turn away from God because they can't bear to trust in anyone but themselves.

Even though it was a bright day outside, we kept the shades down. The darkness in the room was almost like a sound, a scream of silence that deafened the mind. We hid the light, because being blind to it was better than being taunted by it. The true horror wasn't in the darkness - it was seeing the light but not being able to feel it.

I wondered how it would feel like to be trapped in bed; staring up at the blank ceiling all day, trying to discern patterns in the chipped paint. When faced with a blank slate, the mind tends to wander - but the end result may not always be what we expect.

My fingers found his hand and held it gently. He was so fragile, but he wasn't supposed to be.