The Chime of Bluebells

7

Morning came as fast as a snail frozen to the ground. The night consisted a lot of turning over, switching positions, sighing and overthinking. Thoughts wandered in the direction of Malachi. When I finally drifted off to the Land of Dreams, nightmares of him being put behind bars without the right to stand trial—and to never be spoken to again—appeared. He was dragged off, my gaze only getting small glimpses of his silhuett as he moved further away down a concrete hallway or behind the frosty glass of a door, four guards flanking him. I followed, running as fast my legs could bare although the throbbing pain, but it only resulted in him getting further and further away. The feeling of never seeing his dark waves and green eyes, or hear his raspy low voice as he held me tight, grew within, tearing me apart from the inside out.

I woke to the sweet sound of the birds' morning tweets in fresh spring sun. Their songs sounded chippy and comforting, until I slowly registered I'd no windows in my room and quickly sat upright.

Unlike people I've seen woken up in hospitals in movies and for a brief moment not knowing where he or she was, I immediately remembered where I was and why. I got dressed in the same clothes that were provided for me the day before: soft pants, tank top and zip-up hoody—all garments white. Then, I poked my head out of my room only for the tweets to grow louder and a nurse stopped by, looking at me as I pointed out the source.

"Speakers," she confirmed my thoughts. "Helps to keep a homely atmosphere."

"I bet. I thought it was real for a moment."

"Before realizing you don't have a window?"

"Yeah..."

She smiled. She was very young, barely twenty-five if guessing. "Yeah, I thought it weird too. Ruins the realistic feature of the whole idea, doesn't it? Well, well," she shrugged it off. "Hungry?"

"Actually, starving."

"Great! Breakfast is about to be served in the dining hall." Her gaze glanced at the watch. "Lucky for you, you're probably one of the first to wake up. Less messy in the dining area and the eggs are fresh."

"You have eggs?"

"Hard-boiled, soft-boiled, medium-boiled, fried, moshed. It's almost like a hotel's breakfast buffet if you ask me."

I followed her to the end of the corridor. Passing by Noah's room, I tried peeking inside, but the door was shut and the blinds were down. No noises from a phone or buzzing from a TV could be distinguished from within and I scurried along. We took a left and came to the dining hall. Where our taco buffet had been served yesterday, was now stocked with a very appealing breakfast buffet. There were different types of bread rolls and cheese along with salami, the pinkish kaviar from the western coast, cucumber and tomatoes at one table. Yoghurt in flavors of raspberry, passion fruit and star fruit or vanilla (with cereal of course) at another. Then there were the warm foods: pan-fried tomatoes with pepper, eggs in all shapes and forms and roasted vegetables. At a smaller side-table a few beverages had been placed on ice plates: orange-, apple-, and grapefruit juice; milk; water; o'boy; tea and coffee.

"Wow."

"Right?" The nurse nodded, her whole face enlighted by the excitement of how incredible the foods served here could be.

"Is it always this much?"

"Uh-huh, every single day. Only for breakfast, though. The chef has a lower budget for lunch and dinner. He believes breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and I'm right with him on that. It helps with a good and fresh start in the morning, especially when most patients here are in rehab or undergoing long treatments. It gives them more strength and evident-based research has proven it to be more effective for sick people." She looked at me, horrify struck in those dark eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, miss, I didn't—"