My name is Alex Summers, and I remember the moment of my death.

I remember dying.

But mostly, I remember living.

The thing is, most of the last year that I remember living has been in the prison that my own body’s become. All the things I’ve seen, all the things I’ve done, and I’m still no further along than when I was born. I can’t feed myself, dress myself, even talk. I’m catheterised. I wear diapers.

Of course, the nurses don’t call them diapers. They’re incontinence pads. But it’s the same thing. I’m so completely dependent on others that I can’t even control my own bowels or bladder. You’d think that it would’ve become easier. After all, it’s been this way for almost a year now. You’d think that the humiliation of having someone else wipe your ass for you would fade after the first few months. But it doesn’t. Oh, you get used to it, of course, but the indignity doesn’t get any more palatable with time or repetition.

The nurses here are, for the most part, great. Sure, they’re performing what’s termed personal care for you, doing everything for you -for ME- that I used to be able to do myself, and they’re generally very professional about it, striking the right balance between being compassionate and clinical, not making too big a deal out of it or making the embarrassment of a grown man soiling himself any worse than it already is, but sometimes (maybe inevitably, I don’t know) they’ll be talking to each other across you.

I’m not the heaviest guy in the world, but muscle’s denser than fat and while there’s been a certain amount of muscular atrophy over the past year despite the physiotherapy programme, I’m still solid enough to require two people for anything physical. Of course, that’s the rule anyway, but like any rule it gets bent and, occasionally, broken. Back pain used to go with territory if you were a nurse; not so much these days, but there’s still a certain strain lifting someone by yourself.

It’s weird but, as much as I sometimes resent the occasions when they’ll talk about me rather than to me, I can’t really blame them. It’s not like they’re getting much response out of me. And what I learn about their lives, the things they talk about while doing their job, these little acts of voyeurism I’m forced into, they serve as my entertainment. After all, my eyes and ears still work. It’s just everything else I’m having problems with.

There’s one nurse, Annie Ghazikhanian, who seems to spend more time with me than anyone else. I do tend to see a lot of faces, of course, and over the past year, as happens in any workplace, some of them moved on, getting replaced by new faces. But she’s been my... I don’t know what you’d call it, primary carer? for most of the time I’ve been here.

Annie could talk professionally, at an international level. But then I guess you get into the habit of doing all the talking if the person you’re talking to isn’t doing any of it. Sometimes, her persistence amazes me. In all the time she’s been working with me, she never seems to have given up the hope that, one day, I’ll talk to her. It’s not like I couldn’t hold a pretty decent conversation with her by this point. Seems like I know everything about her life, like I’m privy to every detail.

I know all about her son, Carter, all her hopes and dreams and fears for him, things I can relate to after my time with Scotty, my own son in another world, in another life. But despite her unfailingly positive attitude I get the impression that, outside of her job and her son, she doesn’t have much of a life. It’s probably fuller than mine’s been recently, but she still seems lonely.

It seems sometimes that she’s kind of got a thing for me but, strangely enough, although I’m completely vulnerable, I still feel safe with her. Maybe because she’s let herself be so vulnerable with me, intentionally or otherwise. She’s let me see what’s going on in her life, in her head, and that act of trust is another reason that I don’t mind her talking to me non-stop. It makes me feel useful, and connected to the outside world.

I don’t know if she really thinks I take any of it in, or whether it’s just the triumph of hope over experience, but she’s my window on the outside world. Through her, I feel connected to Carter, I know which celebrity is sleeping with which other celebrity (or, in some cases, celebrities), and I’m pretty up-to-date on world affairs. More than when I was busy saving the world, or one like it, ironically enough. These days, at least, I have time to sit and listen, albeit no choice in what I listen to.

Today, the news is about me.

Well, not entirely. But I’m mentioned in one of the articles. My apparent death when the plane Greystone and I were in blew up. I survived and spent a year in an alternate reality, which made both more and less sense than this one. And now I’m here.

From Annie reading to me previously, I’ve learned that the X-Men have gone public, Professor Xavier himself, in what is a pretty radical about-face, outing them on national TV. Given what actually made it into the papers, I’d love to know the story behind that one. What else has happened while I’ve been gone?

Maybe I’ll find out. Annie seemed a little freaked out by seeing my picture in the paper, learning that I was a mutant, but she told Carter that she was going to ring Xavier’s, try to get in contact with Scott. Of course, she talked to me about it, too, once she realised I was actually still there.

The last time I saw Scott in person I threw him out of a plane. That’s enough to put a strain on any relationship, and Scott and I have never been as close as either of us would have liked. For a long time, I resented Scott; you know, big brother/little brother stuff. Thought he could be a bit of an asshole on occasion, but then I’m hardly innocent on that score. The last time we talked before I died, or whatever you want to call it, I apologised and he forgave me. Pretty much like that. One or two more words but essentially that easy.

Of course, there’s still a lot to work out between us. God knows, I had some pretty intense experiences while I was gone, and I don’t know what Scott’s been up to. If what I hear from Annie is any indication, Xavier going public has caused more than a few ripples, and I can only imagine what’s been going on behind the scenes, all the stories that didn’t make it to the media.

So I’m lying her in my bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the nurses outside my door being quiet as they do their rounds, the squeak of soles, the faint smell of disinfectant (which, let me tell you, is infinitely preferable to the alternative). In the distance, there’s the reassuring white noise of traffic that, most nights, helps me to sleep. But not tonight.

I thought I was resigned to being here, or at least that part of me was, but maybe some of Annie’s optimism has rubbed off on me. She saw the picture in the paper, read the story. And when her shift ended and she said goodbye to me, like she always does, and she told me how she was going to try to get a message to Scott, she left me with something I thought I’d forgotten.

Hope.

After all, in my time with the X-Men, I’ve come back from the dead. More than once. Got better, as the flippant saying goes. Overcoming my current condition should be a walk in the park by comparison, shouldn't it?

And so I just lie here, unable to sleep because, maybe some time soon, I won’t HAVE to just lie here.

Because, for Annie Ghazikhanian, this is more than a job: it’s a vocation, and her commitment doesn’t end when her shift does.

Because my brother’s one of the most determined, most stubborn people I’ve ever met.

Because, in the world in which I’ve spent so many years of my adult life, miracles happen and anything’s possible.

I hope.