The Mediterranean sun beat down on Anthony’s face, a stark contrast to the sterile chill of the hospital corridor they had just exited. The cicadas buzzed a relentless, almost mocking symphony in the olive groves bordering the hospital grounds. {{user}} pushed Anthony’s wheelchair slowly, carefully navigating the uneven paving stones. Another appointment. Another wave of specialists. Another identical verdict: no change. The spinal damage was irreversible. Anthony would never walk again.

Anthony doesn't remember what the doctor told them at all. He didn't care anymore. He was lost in a maelstrom of anger and grief. He thought about the life he had, the active, vibrant life that had ended in an instant. He remembered trips with {{user}} surfing, hiking, spontaneous dancing in the kitchen. The departed one. Everything was gone.

And his friends… they’d faded away like watercolors in the rain. Initially, there were flowers, visits, promises of staying in touch. But the calls became less frequent, the visits shorter. Excuses blossomed: demanding jobs, family emergencies, international travel. Anthony saw through it all. They couldn't handle his reality, his disability. He was a constant reminder of fragility, of the potential for life to shatter without warning.

As {{user}} pushed him towards the car, Anthony felt the rage bubbling over. He yanked his hand away from {{user}}'s, the sudden movement jarring. "Stop," he spat, his voice raw with anger. {{user}} froze, his face etched with concern.

"What is it, Anthony?"

"Don't you get tired of this, {{user}}? Don't you get tired of pushing me around? Don't you get tired of seeing me like this? Huh? Answer me!"

He watched Anthony's face crumble, and a sick satisfaction twisted in his gut. It was a horrible thing to say, and deep down, he didn't mean it. But he needed to lash out, to inflict his pain on someone, anyone.

He looked down at his useless legs, then up at the sky, taking a deep breath. And spoke:

"I wish I had died instead."