Where's my prince?

My feet pace across the wooden floors of my room while planted firmly in place.  I'm not moving, but I'm going everywhere.  Words without meaning dance in the back of my mind, and toys prance around my still-planted feet.  My skin is turning brown and heavy, growing thicker with every breath I take.  It's getting harder to breath, my hair is compressing over my mouth, cutting off my air.  Leaves fall around my feet.  Leaves in the shape of hairs.  My hairs. I'm turning into a tree.  Bark clouds my vision, and my body is pushing me out of my skin, away from what surely will be my prison. I break free.  lifting my arms to the sky and soaring.  I always knew I would turn into a tree when I died, I knew it. The toys are children, now.  climbing in my branches, tugging at my leafy hair. It hurts. Stop it.  I'm falling into myself again, back into the tree, and I shake my arms to rid myself of the childish toys.  I jolt, my body spazzing into consciousness.  I'm laying in a hospital bed, tubes coming out of my arms, needles poked under my skin.  My arms still looks rough, and I remember that it's because of the cancer.  The reason I'm here and not skydiving or driving down an old country road.   I stare at the white walls of my prison, and I wonder who would care enough to rescue me.