While feeling completely consumed by the terrifying experience of drowning, I abruptly awoke, desperately gasping for breath in a hopeless battle with my mind. Startled and disoriented, I instinctively brought my hands to my chest, immediately noticing the cables connected to me. The steady, rhythmic sound of a machine close by caught my attention – it was monitoring and counting each beat of my heart.

"You are awake," Angela said.

Seeing her after the vivid dream, filled me with an immense sense of relief. I showed her the biggest smile I could manage, grateful to be back to reality inside of a hospital room. Curiously, I noticed that Angela's behavior was different from before. She seemed more serious and concerned, lacking the playful energy she had during our earlier interaction. It was clear that she was worried.

"My parents?" I asked.

"I'll bring them in. For now, just rest. That's all you need to do."

As Nurse Angela exited the room, I was left alone with my thoughts. My mind inevitably drifted back to the vivid dream, thinking, if there was any deeper meaning or symbolism behind it.

Suddenly, the calmness of the room was shattered when the door burst open. My mother hurried in, her face streaked with tears, reflecting the depth of her distress. The frantic way she moved clearly conveyed the immense fear and anxiety she was feeling at that moment.

"Sammy! I thought I lost you forever. Oh God, thank you!"

Following closely behind, my father and Nurse Angela entered the room. As they did, I managed to move my hands and wrapped them around my mother, holding her as tightly as I could. The warmth of her embrace was incredibly comforting.

My mother wrapped me in her arms, as I watched tears trickling down my father's cheeks. The tangible love shown by my parents in their every gesture effectively dissolved the eerie sense of solitude that had pervaded my dream.

As I reflected on the dream, I realized that in it, I had reached a point of acceptance, a resignation to my fate. I had let go of the aspirations and the determination to prove to myself that I held onto in reality for as long as I could.

The following morning, my father came into the room. It was early; my still-warm breakfast plate had been placed on the side table. He held a box in his hands, from which he pulled out a board game. Chess was his favorite and given that he was likely to spend a considerable amount of time here with me, he seemed to have decided that we might as well pass the time playing his preferred game. My mother sat on the couch in the room, and immediately fell asleep.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

During our chess game, I came to terms with the inevitability of defeat. My dad was a formidable opponent in chess, his strategy was complex and often elusive. He didn't rely on the power of the major pieces; instead, his most effective moves often involved the smaller ones.

My father carefully maneuvered his rook, moving it diagonally to the left and positioning it directly across from my king. He gently held the chess piece between his fingers, considering the move with a strategic eye. As soon as he confidently released the piece onto its new square, he leaned in and whispered, "Check," indicating that my king was now under direct threat in the game.

At this stage of the game, my knights were immobilized, my rooks were out of play, and my king was trapped in a corner. It was clear that in fewer than three moves, my position would collapse under his strategy, signaling the end of the game.

His strategy involved more than just the movements on the board. One of his tactics included resting his index finger on the piece he was considering moving. He wouldn't immediately let it go; instead, he would tap on the top of the piece while maintaining a fixed stare at me. It was a distraction technique, using his hand to divert my attention and cloud my ability to anticipate his next move. In response, I moved my king backward to the only spot where it couldn't be attacked.

"You know, what is your biggest mistake, Sam?"

As he posed the question, then, he advanced his queen deep into my territory. "You lack patience; Check Mate." His words came as he finalized his decisive move, sealing the game's outcome.

That day, my mind wasn't really on the chess game; it was preoccupied with the dream I had experienced the previous night and the lingering question of why we were still in the hospital. My understanding of my medical condition, whether it was curable or not, was limited. Being just twelve years old at the time, my attention easily drifted, captivated by any distraction, even an uneven game of chess.

"Dad, can we go to Spencer's after we're done here?"

He frowned in response. "Kids and Video games these days. Those things are going to corrupt the future generations."

After what felt like an unending series of needle pricks and encounters with irritable nurses, the doctor entered the room, knocking gently at the door, and holding a yellow envelope.

"Good morning. I need a word with both parents, please."

The expression on the doctor's face seemed to convey a message before he even spoke. The combination of sadness in his eyes and the forced smile suggested that the contents of the yellow envelope were not positive. He partially closed the door, creating a space for a private conversation with my parents, yet leaving a small opening.

And then, the expected occurred.

Driven by curiosity, I found myself eager to overhear the conversation between my parents and the doctor. Despite my significant weakness and the encumbrance of the cables attached to my chest, I was determined to use the remnants of my strength to eavesdrop on their discussion.

Slowly, I detached the cables from my chest, causing the machine to emit noises that were unfamiliar to me. Carefully, I got out of bed and made my way towards the door. I was torn between whether to press my ear against it to hear better or to peer through the crack to witness the meeting. However, a nagging feeling inside me suggested that I shouldn't be eavesdropping.

Despite the warning voice in my head, my curiosity proved too strong to ignore. I resolved to satisfy my need to know, disregarding my own reservations. But my efforts and the resolve I had mustered came crashing down, the moment I saw the first tear escape my mother's eyes.