Its been a year since my heart attack.

A year is a pretty long time when you're left alone in a hospital with your thoughts. So I've come to terms with my situation.

Equirrythmia.

A strange word. A foreign, alien one. One that you don’t want to be in the same room with.

A rare condition. It causes the heart to act erratically and occasionally beat way too fast. It can be fatal.

Apparently, I've had it for a long time. They said it was a miracle that I was able to go on so long without anything happening.

Is that really a miracle? I guess it was supposed to make me feel better, more appreciative of my life.

It really didn’t do too much to cheer me up.

My parents, I think, were hit harder by the news than I was. They practically had two hemorrhages apiece.

I had already had a full day to digest everything. To them, it was all fresh. They were even willing to sell the house in order to pay for the cure.

Of course, there isn’t a cure.

Because of the late discovery of this… condition, I've had to stay at the hospital, to recuperate from the treatments.

When I was first admitted, it felt as if I were missed…

For about a week, my room in the ward was full of flowers, balloons and cards.

But, the visitors soon dwindled and all the get-well gifts began trickling down to nothing shortly after.

I realized that’s the only reason I had gotten so many cards and flowers was because sending me their sympathy had been turned into a class project.

Maybe some ponies were genuinely concerned, but I doubt it. Even in the beginning, I barely had any visitors. By the end of the first month, only my parents came by on a regular basis.

RainyDay was the last to stop visiting.

After six weeks, I never saw her again. We never had that much to talk about when she visited, anyway.

We didn’t touch the subject that was between us on that snowy day, ever again.

The hospital?

Its not really a place id like to live in.

The doctors and nurses feel so impersonal and faceless.

I guess its because they are in a hurry and they have a million other patients waiting for them, but it makes me feel uncomfortable.

For the first few months or so, I asked the head cardiologist every time I saw him for a rough estimate of when id be able to leave.

He never answered anything in a straightforward way, but told me to wait and see if the treatment and surgeries worked.

So I idly observed the scar that those surgeries had left on my chest slowly change its appearance overtime, thinking of it as some kind of omen.

I still ask the head cardiologist about leaving, but my expectations are low enough now that I'm not disappointed any more when I don’t get a reply. The way he shuffles around the answer shows that there is at least some hope.

At some point I stopped watching TV. I don’t know why, I just did.

Maybe it was the wrong kind of escapism for my situation.

I started reading instead. There was a small “library” at the hospital, although is was more like a stoarage room for books. I began working my way through it, one small stack at a time. After consuming them, I would go back for more.

I found that I liked reading, and I think I even became a bit addicted.

I started feeling naked without a book in front of me.

But I loved the stories.

That was what my life was like.

The days became increasingly harder to distinguish from each other, differing only by the book I was reading and the weather outside. It felt like time blurred into some kind of gooey mass I was trapped inside, instead of moving within.

A week could go by without me really noticing it.

Sometimes I’d pause in realization that I didn’t know what day of the week it was.

But other times, all the things that surrounded me would painfully crash into my consciousness, through the barrier on nonchalance I had set up for myself.

The pages of my book would start to feel sharp and burning hot and the heaviness in my chest would become so hard to bear that I had to b]put the book aside and just lay down for a while, looking at the ceiling as if I was going to cry.

But that happened only rarely.

And I couldn’t even cry.

Today the doctor comes in and gives me a smile. He seems excited, but not very. It's like he is trying to make an effort to be happy on my behalf.

My parents are here. It's been a few days since I've last seen them. Both of them are even dressed up/ is this supposed to be some kind of special occasion? It's not  party.

There is this ritual the head cardiologist has. He takes his time, sorting his papers, then setting them aside as if to make a point of the pointlessness of what he just did.

Then he casually sits down on the edge of the bed next to mine. He look me in the eyes for a moment.

“Hello, Heartbeat. How are you today?”

I don’t answer him but I smile a little, back at him.

“I believe that you can leave the hospital; your heart is stronger now, and with some precautions, you should be fine.”

“We have all your medication sorted out. I'll give your father the prescription.”

The doctor hands a sheet of paper to my dad, whose expression turns wooden as he reads it quickly.

“So many…” he says worriedly.

I take it from his hand and take a look myself, feeling numb. How am I supposed to react to this?

I can’t understand any of the things on the paper. Attempting to only makes me feel sicker.

All this… for the rest of my life, every day?

“I'm afraid that’s the best we can do at this point. However, new medications are always being developed, so I wouldn’t be surprised to see that list fade over the years.” Explained the doctor.

“Also, I've spoken with your parents, and we believe it is best if you don’t return to your home in Canterlot.”

What?!

“Please calm down, Heartbeat. Listen to what the doctor has to say.” My dad reasoned.

Calm down? The way he says it tells me he knew full well that I wouldn’t like it. What the hell?

Whatever of my concern shows, it's ignored.

“You will instead, be sent to live in a nice little town called Ponyville, the ponies there are mostly caring , friendly and many in numbers, and with someone of your condition, would not hesitate to help you when you need it, and because the towns hospital is not far away, we think this will be best for you.” Exaplined the doctor.

“We went out there and had a look a couple of weeks back and had a look and talked with the Mayor of the town; I think you’d like it.”

My dad sounded genuine when he said he thought id like it.

It looks like I don’t really have a choice, anyway.

I really hate that something so important was decided for me, But what can I do about it? A “normal” life is out of the question now.

I want to say something, I want to protest, but no.

I don’t say anything, the fact is that I know now it's futile.

There isn’t really a choice. I know this, but I guess ill try to make the best of it.

A clean slate isn’t a bad thing.

At the very least I’ll try to see what my new life will look like.

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