Ballet on Glass

Am I Alone?

**

Fluorescent light rays pierce your eyes the minute you manage to pry them. You blink ever so slowly, until the blurry edges of your vision clear out a bit. In a second, however, the blinding fluorescent beams are blocked by a tall, pale skinned frame.

Where am I?  Your thoughts echo, but your lips feel to heavy to say them out loud.

The tall frame keeps looming over you, and a spark of irritation bubbles in your chest. Why is this person standing so close to me?

Then, you hear voices. An onslaught of people in white hover around you before you can comprehend anything. You feel like a rare art piece in a prestigious museum, and the feeling stirs your insides.

Miss? Miss, can you hear me?  One of the figures in white mutters, the sound as though the voice is underwater.

Get away from me, you try to yell.

Miss, can you tell me how many fingers I have up?  The man in white asks again, his distant voice becoming less muffled.

You try to move your lips, to let them know to step away from you so you can breathe, but good heavens, your lips won't move.

You begin feeling beads of sweat pooling rapidly at the nape of your neck. Then, you begin to feel the outline of your brows, then the corners of your eyes, then your cupid's bow. Your vision finally clears, much like a veil being lifted over your eyes. After getting your bearings, you stare at the doctor leaning over your bed.

"Three." Your voice comes out in a barely audible whisper.

All the doctors simultaneously heave sighs of relief and the tall pale man grabs your hand. You don't care that the doctors begin passing out instructions to residents and nurses behind them. Neither do you care that they are relaying all the important information to this stranger. All you can focus on are his eyes— his exotic sea green eyes that seem to pierce anything they land on with an otherworldly intensity.

You stare so hard at those eyes that you don't realise the room is now empty. It is only when this stranger sits on the stool by your bed and leans closer to your face that your rationality returns.

"Who are you?" I really need to stop talking. My throat burns!

The stranger sighs, smiles and squeezes your hand. The irritating feeling from earlier doubles and if it weren't for your bedridden state, you'd have easily shoved the asshole off his stool. As if he hears your thoughts, his smiles widens and he lets go of your hand.

"No need to be alarmed. Well, maybe there is a need. The name's Oliver." His baritone sounds much smoother than you'd imagined it to be.

You hardly find the words to reply this stranger, but for some reason, you feel his presence in this hospital room might be fate showing you the brighter sides of life.

It's about goddamn time, you think to yourself as you feel Oliver's pale, cool hand swipe at your cheek.