My name is Joshua Greene.

My number is 89IWK56.

I’m 17 years old, but I’ve spent most of my life here.

I didn’t do anything wrong. They even tell me it’s not my fault. “It happens to one in every five people” They say it like it’s a good thing. Well, that makes me feel so much better, you know? Being a statistic.


I guess I shouldn’t be complaining. It’s isn’t that bad. I get a continental breakfast. And lunch, and dinner, too. A cheap meal consisting of Jell-O, water, an instant potatoes. For eight years it’s been this way. And lately I’ve taken to vomiting it all up.

And there’s so much time. You can play all their games, read all their books, and eat all of their gross food, and you still hours and hours left.

Hour spent looking at the ceiling, making shapes with the shadows. Hours spent watching the television. No not watching, staring at the fake people living hteir fake lives with their fake personalities.

I can’t go outside. My bed is my ball and chain. I never get up, except when I have to pee. The room is my cage, and I’m screaming and crying to get out.

And one more thing. No human contact. Fabulous, eh? No parents, no friends, no school. Just the people in the books, in the tube, and in my head.

I don’t see why I can’t just hang myself right now. But I’m staying here for my friends, my family, hoping that in a few years, I can break free from this hell.

And my only salvation is sleep. Sleeping passes the time. And I feel great when I wake up. Until I remember where I am.

But, by far, the best parts are the dreams.

I go to another place. It’s a little bit of everything. In one direction, and ocean. In another, a desert. There’s snow up high, and a pond right in the middle of it.

And I’m in the best shape anybody could be in. I can run a mile without breaking a sweat. I swim hours without feeling tired.

I eat delicious food. Turkey and stuffing, real potatoes and gravy, warm rolls…a real Thanksgiving. And that feeling of taking a bite out of an apple. The breaking of the skin…letting your teeth sink into the soft flesh…God. It’s better than anything, even sex. Or so I imagine.

Things look better, too. All the colors…they’re so bright…and amazing. And I see things I don’t normally see. I see things so beautiful it makes me cry.

And there’s a girl. She has blonde curly hair and big, blue beautiful eyes. She doesn’t talk, but she understands. And she listens to everything that I say. She lets me kiss her…hug her. And I love her.

But then I wake up.

Staying here kills me. It literally kills me. I’m so sick, I’m dying. I swear I’ll never come back from this.

The tubes are killing me. These tubes coming out of my body are supposed to be the thing that’s keeping me alive, but they’re killing me.

This is the real dream. A bad, sick, terrible dream. Maybe when I wake up it’ll be worse than what it is now. But I doubt it. Nothing can be worse than having cancer your whole life.