You're dying.

The nurse who feeds him his medication every day, the person who changes his nasty blood-soaked bandages, the person who makes his days a little better, is dying. Choking on their own blood with eyes looking up at the fluorescent lights like angels will come down and save them.

There are no angels. Curly knows that now that you're dying.

He thought that maybe a miracle would come out of this. That maybe he could heal and be free, get that change he craved. But he could never do that without you.