I couldn’t scream.

I couldn’t move.

But somewhere in the paralysis I made a promise to myself, clear and cold as glass: if I could move even one finger, I would turn every word they had spoken into the evidence that ended them.

There were four days until Friday.

It is a particular horror, being spoken about as though you are already gone while you are still entirely present.

They stood at the foot of my bed and discussed the logistics of my death the way you’d discuss a real estate closing — dates, signatures, the order of operations — and not once did either of them lower their voice, because to them the body in the bed was not a person who could hear.