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Six months later

I was told that if it weren't for a miserable brain activity, I would have died the first time my heart stopped beating.

Six months earlier, after twenty-eight hours of kidnapping, I was admitted to the emergency room with clinical death, and the doctors brought me back. Part of me was already dead, while the other fought for another breath of life. I didn't see the light, nor any relatives who died a long time ago. I just died. More than once.

The shots that hit my body charged their price. The one in my chest lodged between two of my ribs attached to the sternum, but did not hit my heart. On the other hand, the one in my spine had the same impact as a hammering in my bones; dragging and compressing tissues and vertebrae into a cone effect.

It was scary to regain consciousness with a complete medical team about me, and, even worse, outside finding out the diagnosis. My legs were heavy, asleep and uncomfortable, when I was told it was a spinal cord injury at T12 level.