I brush his golden brown hair from his eye as he lays in the bed. A single tear drops upon his cheek, and I wipe it along with my own. I stare down at his innocent porcelain face, wondering how we could have gotten here. How did I allow my little Peter to end up in this bed, hooked up to all of these machines and wires within the most depressing four walls I've ever had the displeasure of encountering?

My once sweet, happy 8-year-old boy, lays unrecognizable to his own mother. No remnant of him seemingly left other than his body kept alive by a machine, and yet I can't let go. Doctors have given up hope, but I can't because I know he's still in there... and it's my fault he's here. It should have been me, but my punishment is at the cost my son's life. I knew I shouldn't have been driving in that weather, and yet I ignored everything in my gut because I had to be up early for work and Peter had school. I couldn't stay at my sister's because who would pay my bills? Yet, where is work now, right?

I had Peter when I was very young. His father was out of the picture the moment he learned of my pregnancy, and my parents disowned me just the same. I only reconnected with my sister a year ago, after our parents passed. I did not attend the funeral, and she needed the inheritance, of which she's kindly shared a bit, but not enough to allow me to quit my job. I shouldn't have forgiven her, but I was tired of being alone and without help. Perhaps, I should have left Peter with her when she offered, then the impact of my car and the deer that popped in the middle of a snowy road would have affected me alone and not my son. But, I've never been away from him, not even a single night. Peter is my everything. I dropped out of school to care for him, and I never regretted a moment. He's my joy, my life, my purpose and here he is, in this bed because of me. The person he trusted with his life. The mother who failed him. I was injured in the accident too, but Peter had apparently unbuckled his seatbelt without my noticing, and the rest was history. Finding him breathing was a miracle in of itself. I suffered from broken ribs, arm and leg as well as a concussion. Thankfully, an oncoming patrol car found us before we both died, though I wish I had most days.

I run my fingers through his soft hair. "Hey Peter, it's mom." They say that people in comas can hear us when we speak, and I haven't stopped for the past two months, regardless of what doctors or anyone says. My Peter is a fighter. He fought like hell when he was born prematurely, and doctors gave him no chance then, and I know he's fighting now.

I like to tell him happy stories, especially some from his younger days. Days, that at the time were so difficult, yet filled with stolen moments of joy. "I brought Mr. Turtle from home. I know how much you love him." I tuck the stuffed green toy underneath his tiny arm. God, he's lost so much weight. I go sit down next to him and take his hand in mine. "Sorry it took me so long to find him buddy. I know you were upset before we went to your aunt's house without him. But, I found him tucked in a corner in your closet. You hid him well in your last game." I swear he flinches for a moment, but I brush it off, as its known comatose patients will have body reactions outside of their control; or, at least, that's what the nurse told me last time I thought he'd moved.

"Remember the day we got him?" I chuckle. This story always makes Peter smile, and he loves telling it."Remember how we went to the fair, and when we got there, it started unexpectedly raining so they shut down most of the rides? Then it started storming, and they had to shut down the fair entirely? We were soaking wet, and you were so upset, you'd been looking forward to the fair for months, and the one day we went..." I had worked double shifts and saved money for months to take Peter to the fair. I had taken my first day off in years, and done everything to ensure Peter would have the best day, and of course everything went wrong. I felt like such a failure as a parent when I saw his face, but it's funny how little things can make kids so happy. I go on, "But then the nice man at one of the game booths saw how sad you were. He let you choose a toy, and you saw Mr. Turtle..." His hand flinches in mine. My eyes brighten. Could he be responding to the story, or is it just wishful thinking? I keep going anyways."You saw Mr. Turtle, and you loved him the second you laid eyes on him. When the nice man gave him to you, you were so happy. You hugged him and christened him Mr. Turtle. Suddenly, the fair shutting down didn't bother you anymore." I swear his hand squeezes mine, and is that a smile? His eyes are twitching, like they want to open. Is it finally working? "You skipped all the way to the car with Mr. Turtle in the pouring rain. You caught a nasty cold, but Mr. Turtle never left your side, like right now. He's been your best friend ever since." I see his eyes moving. He's moving. I'm not crazy. Peter is responding to the story.

"NURSE, NURSE!" I yell as Peter is surely coming to. The boy they had written off is coming to!

As the nurses rush in, I lean into Peter's ear and whisper...

"Just hold that happy thought Peter..."

Four minutes in and I knew I had made a colossal mistake.

It was supposed to be a joke.

I didn't think it was real, none of us did.

But it's too late now, and there's no way out.

Three disfigured bodies lay in a pool of blood, and her skeletal hand was reaching for me out of the broken mirror next.

The bitter liquid is warm in my hand. My cold, blue eyes are frozen in the distance upon a sign that says, "You can't buy happiness, but you can buy alcohol and that's close enough."

I chuckle as I shoot the liquid to the back of my throat. It burns, but it's a welcomed burn.

"Another, Ms. Williams?"asks the bartender.

"Please, just call me Emily, and make it a double," I say.

He nods, "You got it...Emily."

His warm green eyes and inviting smile give me a sense of ease I haven't felt since I became "Emily Williams".

Ah, Emily Williams. The the day I created that alias, I never imagined it would reach these heights. The name would be plastered on every magazine, billboard, television and any empty space that could be filled for the public to consume.

Emily Williams, model, actress, singer, writer and CEO of a soon to be Fortune 500 company.

She has it all; beauty, money, fame and access to any man she wants at any time. What more could she want? Emily may say nothing, but Ingrid would disagree.

Ingrid Schmidt, the invisible girl. She was plain but sharp. The world wouldn't see her, but she would make them. Her parents abandoned her at an orphanage when she was three years old, and she would be on the streets before she was 16. Ingrid dreamed of having a family, a home and all the things she'd never known. Instead, fame found her, fortune became her, and life would never be the same. Ingrid Schmidt would change her brown locks to blond, her hourglass figure would form and Emily Williams would be born.

Yet, even as Emily, Ingrid would dream of her parents' return, and one day she would get her wish. As Emily Williams spread across the globe, the parents that abandoned her would find her. They'd use Ingrid to feed their addictions, steal from her, and break her heart once again.

Any remnants of Ingrid and the dreams she once possessed would die an agonizing death within Emily, and Emily's focus would not surpass money, fame nor self-preservation. She'd refuse her hand to various men, find a different bed each night and never stay in one place for too long lest her past, thoughts and loneliness caught up to her.

"Here you go, Ms- I mean Emily", says the bartender as he hands me my drink, and a noticeable silver band on his left hand glimmers under the bar light.

"Thank you," I say as I take drink and swirl it in my hand.

"Tell me..." I squint to read his name tag, "Jesse...what would you do with a million dollars right now?"

Jesse looks at me bewildered, as others before him often have.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"I mean, if someone gave you a million dollars right now, what would you do with it?" I say persistently.

Without hesitation Jesse says, "I'd buy a house. My wife is pregnant, and we always dreamed of having a house to start our family. I was hoping I'd have enough saved but the baby came sooner than I thought."

I'd gotten a lot of answers over the years but none as sincere as this one.

"Hm," I say as a I take a sip, "how long have you been married?"

"Five years," he says.

"And what are you having?"

"A girl," he responds as he lights up, "I'm terrified, but I also can't wait. She'll be daddy's little girl."

I clear my throat in a grim attempt to mask my tears.

"Do you guys have a name?" I ask choked up.

"The wife and I can't agree. I wanted to name her Ingrid after my late grandmother, but the wife isn't a fan. Says it sounds too old-timey," he says.

I laugh. I always thought it sounded old-timey too.

"What's so funny?" he asks.

"Nothing,"I say. "nothing at all. That's a beautiful dream."

I pause, "Can I please get the check to close out the tab?"

"Sure." Jesse turns to go but stops, "I'm sorry to ask, you think I can also get an autograph for the wife? She's a huge fan, and actually so am I..." His cheeks turn a rosy hue.

"Absolutely," I say.

His smile stretches ear to ear, like a child left alone in a candy store. To think one signature could make someone so happy.

Jesse returns with a check in a holder.

I take the holder. "Thanks."

I wave a hundred dollars in front of him before I put it inside the holder on my lap and tell him to keep the change.

"Oh wow," he stammers, "thank you. I'll put it towards the house fund,"he jokes.

I keep the holder and pull out a piece of paper from my purse.

"Who am I making this out to?"

He says, "Oh, right, the autograph. Jesse and Laney Hanks please."

I fill out the piece of paper, put it in the holder atop the hundred dollar bill, close it and give it back to Jesse.

"I hope your dreams come true," I say as I down the drink and begin to leave.

I leave Jesse giddy with joy, but before I can step foot outside the bar he stops me from behind. I turn around to see that all the color has drained from his face and the piece of paper is in his hand.

"Ms-Emily, this is a check. A check for a million dollars, you must have made a mistake. I can't take this."

He tries to hand it back to me with trembling hands. I tighten his grip around the check and push his hands back.

"Yes, you can and you will. It's for you and your family. You deserve to have a house you can make a home in for your daughter."

His mouth is agape, his green eyes wide and moistened by tears. He can't seem to find the words to speak until he simply says with a quavering voice, "Thank you, Emily."

"Please...call me Ingrid," I say as I walk away.

You give me hope in the darkest times

And when I come close to touch you

I stumble and fall

Farther and farther

And I must admire you from afar

When I think of you

My heart flutters

My stomach in knots

I crave your touch

Your kisses of life

Your beauty entrances me

It filters the darkness that surrounds

And lives within

It shows me what could be

In the vast ocean

You are the reason I keep swimming

Our stars are crossed

But one day,

One day, I pray we could be

Ah, the world we could make

Together, you and me.

There's no happily ever after

No silence filled with laughter

No pain without the dagger

No void that doesn't get blacker

There's just the tears filled with fears

And the screams no one hears

So you draw on a smile

Even though you feel vile

You walk the walk

You talk the talk

But when you look in the mirror

It couldn't be clearer

The sadness inside

That you've denied

Painted in your eyes

There's no surprise

But no one else can see

All that you may be

So you wipe your tears

Disguise your fears

Illuminate your teeth

And hide all that lies beneath

Tell me that the broken pieces of my heart will one day be mended. That if I just keep swimming I'll eventually reach the shore. Tell me that this isn't forever. That the crushing ache in my chest and the ever-flowing tears will stop, and I'll breathe again. Tell me I'll find my way, and that the days of wandering aimlessly through life without purpose will be long behind me. Tell me the sun will come out and light the darkness that imprisons my mind and cripples my soul. Tell me you see past my smile, and that one day it will be real.

Please, just tell me it's okay. Tell me because I don't believe myself. My once bright eyes have dimmed, and I'm struggling to swim. My arms have gotten heavy and my legs are numb. I'm in the middle of the ocean without a life jacket. The waves are crashing down on me without any breaks in between, and I fear I'll drown before I ever see the shore or the new horizons it will bring.

Hollywood Blvd. looks different than I remember. There are stars on the ground with names of people I don’t recognize, except for a few from my time. I read the one I am standing on, Pitbull. I wonder what this dog has done to be on a star. So much has changed.

I look around, everyone is staring at these rectangles in their hands that irradiate. They all seem so enamored by them. One person was nearly run over by a vehicle because he refused to look up. No one stops to say hello, no one makes eye contact or asks how you are doing. They just pass you by, and heaven forbid you smile at them and tell them to have a lovely day. They look at you like you are a martian who just landed from outer space speaking in an alien tongue. When did humanity become so robotic?

I agreed to be cryogenically frozen because I hoped for progress and change, yet, here I stand in the middle of a foreign Hollywood Blvd where all basic decency ceases to exist. Fifty plus years have passed and in some ways, the world seems to have regressed.

I was even told the President is an orange man who likes to grab women’s private areas, and children are being kept in cages. Quite frankly, I’m not sure how to feel about 2019 or about the future in general.

I walk dejected, wondering if I made the right decision when a man bumps into me and yells, “watch it!” I’m taken aback, but before I can apologize, two rather diverse looking women come to my aid.

“You watch it,” says the tall, beautiful African American woman. She is dressed in pants that stop well before her knees and a rather revealing blouse. I blush.

“Yeah, you bumped into her you jerk. Apologize,” interjects the hypnotizing, brown-eyed Spanish-looking woman dressed in a skin-tight dress that accentuates her hour-glass figure. There are names for women who dressed like this in my time, but I am too ashamed to utter the words.

The man scoffs and mutters, “damn feminists,” under his breath as he walks away.

“You okay?” asks the brown-eyed beauty. “Yes, I am fine. Thank you,” I respond in awe of the manner they spoke to a man. “I’m Madison,” says the African American woman, “and this is Rachelle.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” I say, “my name is Anne.”

“Nice to meet you, Anne. You look a little lost. Are you headed to a costume party somewhere or a character on the strip?” asks Madison. I furl my eyebrows until I realize they are pointing out my apparel. I did not get the opportunity to modernize my wardrobe and am still wearing my polka-dotted dress and black heels. I smile awkwardly.

“No actually, I was, um,” I pause in an attempt to form the words that explain my situation. “I am not from this time,” I say. The looks on their faces tell me that was not the right way to phrase it. “I apologize, I meant to say, I was cryogenically frozen in 1952 and just woke up in 2019.” Their faces begin to ease. “Oh, Dr. Greenberg’s experiment,” Madison says excitedly, "I was reading about that in my biology class at Standford. I’m shocked you made it without injury. You’ll have to tell us more about it.”

“Madison here is a huge nerd. She’s studying to be a biochemist,” teases Rachelle. Madison hits Rachelle in the arm with her elbow in a joking manner and says, “Says the soon to be Harvard graduate in psychotherapy.”

My eyes widen in awe. “You are able to go to college?” I ask. Their eyebrows furl in curiosity but quickly soften in understanding. “Women can do all sorts of things these days, including going to college,” says Madison.

“Oh?” I say, “I always wanted to study science but back then it was a rarity for women to attend college. My mother forced me to marry right after high school,” I say.

They raise their brows, “Married? where’s your husband?” Rachelle asks rather abruptly. Madison elbows her again and gives her a “you cannot just ask that” look.

“It is quite alright.” I say, “Yes, I was married. He died in an accident, just before I turned 35. Although I didn’t love him, with him and my parents gone, I felt there was nothing for me in 1952, which is why I agreed to be frozen. If I could not study science, I thought I could be a part of it.”

"Well," says Madison, "It's still not too late. Here, why don't you come with us, and we'll show you the ropes."

"Ropes?" I question.

"She means we'll help you get settled and teach you everything you need to know," Rachelle says.

"But first," Madison says pulling out her rectangular object, "let's take a selfie to commemorate this moment, shall we?"

"What is that object, and what is a selfie?" I ask. They giggle and ask me to smile as a flash goes off and captures our images. I look at it mesmerizingly. "Is this a modern camera then?" I ask.

"It's a camera, a phone, and a computer all in one," Madison says.

I blink profusely as my brain tries to adjust to this newfound information and technology.

Rachelle swings her hand over my shoulder and around my neck. "You have much to learn young Padawan."

"What is a Padawan?" I ask.

They laugh. "Just come on. First stop, shopping," Madison says.

Shopping. Finally, something I understand.

As we walk towards the shops, I wonder if perhaps I have misjudged 2019 and that there is more good than bad. If women can become scientists, I cannot wait to discover what else we can do.

Suddenly the future is not looking so dim.

"When I grow up I want to be...an astronaut...no wait...an actress...or maybe a doctor like you daddy!"

He strokes her sweat stained hair as it rests upon her pale face.

"Daddy?" she says, "why are you crying?" He wipes his flooding tears from his puffy red cheeks. "What? Me? I'm not crying. They're tears from how much you make me laugh," he lies.

"But you weren't laughing daddy, and I didn't say anything funny," she coughs.

He gulps. "You're always funny to me cupcake. No matter what you say."

She smiles at her father who drinks in his daughter's porcelain face. She has her mother's ocean blue eyes, the same eyes that hypnotized him when they first met and kept him hypnotized until they closed forever. His daughter's eyes are all that remain on her tiny, fever-striken face, and now, soon they too will close, never to open again.

"Daddy, I'm not going to grow up am I?" she says.

Sobs fill the back of his throat. He couldn't save his wife and, despite all the clinical trials, numerous tests and experimental drugs, he couldn't save his daughter either. He opens his mouth to answer but the held-back sobs find their voice instead. He crashes his face into his palms sobbing, unable to look at his daughter and tell her the truth. She strokes her father's shoulder with her frail, shaking hand and smiles brightly with her big blue eyes.

"It's okay daddy, I'm not scared. Mommy said she was waiting for me up there, and she said it wouldn't hurt anymore."

He looks up at her as shivers vibrate throughout his body. "You talked to mommy?" he asks. She nods weakly. "She visited me in my dream, and she said she couldn't wait to hold me in her arms. She was so pretty, daddy. I wish you saw her. She had big blue eyes like mine." He wished more than anything to see her, to hold her again and have her scent stain his shirts like before. His daughter was a baby when his wife died from the same disease that now encompassed his daughter. He used to show his daughter pictures of her mommy, and always pointed out his wife's big blue eyes. Although, as a doctor and a man of science, he believes that it was merely a fever dream, it oddly gives him hope.

"She had a message for you too daddy," she says. He perks up, intrigued by the words to follow.

"Did she now? And what did she say?" he humors her.

"She said 'it wasn't your fault. That you did all you could to save her and me, and that she loves you. And even though you want to do it, it's not your time yet.' What were you going to do daddy?" He sits up in his seat, taken aback by these words. His daughter couldn't have possibly known what he was planning upon her death. She couldn't have known that he set out to take numerous sleeping pills, now hiding in his pocket, and lay his head next to his daughter's as they both drew their last breath. He can feel his pulse racing. He takes deep breaths in an effort to regain his composure. He takes the pills from his pocket and stares at them. He walks towards the bathroom and contemplates heavily about his next move when he hears his daughter's voice.

"Daddy?"

He tosses the pills into the toilet and flushes them as he rushes back to his daughter's bedside.

"Nothing now sweetheart," he says, "Nothing. How are you feeling?" he asks, stroking her burning, scrawny cheek.

"Tired," she says breathing heavily, "It's getting hard to breathe. Will you hold me?"

He smiles down at his daughter as he weeps heavily, tears staining his cheeks and lips. "Of course I will," he says, crawling into her bed and holding her tight as his tears crash upon her brittle face.

"Dah-dah-dee" she struggles to say as her breath shortens and she fights for air.

"It's okay, it's okay. I'm here, baby,"he sobs. Her body twinges in his arms as it battles for oxygen only to lose miserably. He sits there, taking in their last moments as he weeps and screams uncontrollably. He wonders what posessed him to throw away the pills. He could have died with her, with them both, but here he sits with his daughter's small and lifeless body in his arms, all because of some words his wife allegedly said from beyond...if there even is a beyond. "Why!" he screams as he rocks back and forth,"Why!" He looks down at his daughter's motionless face and brushes her blonde locks from her small forehead. He's suddenly reminded of his momentary feeling of hope. Hope that what his daughter said was true, hope that she did in fact reunite with her mommy and hope that one day he would join them too.

Death is not painful for the one who dies but for those who bothered to care. Rather, life is painful. A twisted beauty, life draws you in with its false promises as it whispers sweet nothings into your ear, only to disappoint. As time goes on and we become older, the illusions fade. The pain and heartache have settled in as we desperately fight to clutch onto the other side of the grass; but alas, most never reach the greener side as they are left in the cold, dead and fruitless dirt. In the end, for most, death is not painful...it is freedom.