He makes no effort in slowing down once the building comes in sight.
He can't imagine what to say. He doesn't think that this unhinged regret will let him say anything. Ever since his heart dropped when Nakamura said she collapsed, the thought of her being in pain unleashed something he can't hold back. Maybe it's rage, maybe it's hope, or maybe it's solely the regret and denial of it all.
Panting, he reaches the front desk, paying no attention to the short line. "Hana," he gasps.
"If you could just take a seat, sir."
"Hana Takahashi. I need to see Hana Takahashi."
"Are you a family member?" she asks plainly. "No, but-" he starts.
"I apologize, but only family members are allowed at this time. I'll be right with you in a minute," the receptionist says sternly.
"No," he pants. "I'm not leaving until I see her."
"Sir, there are three people ahead of you. If you could take a seat, that will make this all easier."
"What's the room number? I'm not wasting any time." His grip on the counter tightens.
"Kid, just take a seat," a man behind him says.
Profanities linger across his tongue, waiting to be spit out. Through the haze of rage clouding his eyes, he looks down at the sheet in front of the receptionist.
Takahashi, Hana. Age 18. | Room 637 - Level 8
Luckily, the receptionist doesn't notice. "Okay," he lies. He's gotten his answer. He goes to the back of the line, and looks at the many signs above.
Waiting Area
Reception
Elevators
Pharmacy
Jackpot. Quickly, he slips out and makes his way past a nurse or two, before getting in the elevator and going up to Level 8. There are a number of people in the lobby, so he goes unnoticed.
Patients
He's walking speedily.
Room 634
Room 635
Room 636
Room 637
The last room of the hall. Etched on a piece of glass or metal, the numbers look dark. They seem tortured, maybe they're a sign from the universe that hasn't been deciphered. The handle of the door shines brightly, and that's the sign Wakatoshi takes as an invitation.
Gently, he opens the door. A table when you walk in, to the right. A rough carpet with deep shades of maroon and gray. Three bottles of hand sanitizer and a bundle of face masks alongside a bottle of water and a stack of cups. Two pens, a notepad.
Hana's medical chart on the wall, next to the brochures about the hospital. A little photo of her. Her birthday, age, height, everything. He squirts one pump of sanitizer and slips a mask on in a second.
There's a bathroom further ahead to the left, a big window straight ahead, the size of the wall. The view is straight green. There's a piece of land before the other buildings come into sight. A lawn.
He hears the beeping pattern of the machines. No one's in there. Pitch quiet, and he recognizes the white edge of the bed. His stomach drops again. Almost immediately he takes those two steps ahead to face her, in denial of where he stands.
This is it. This is the moment where life is slimmed down to a grain of salt, a string of hay. A tight breath, not a blink.
This is the moment where the past blurs a bit more, failing to catch up. The moment it falls back a bit further. But it isn't just any person laying down there, punctured with needles and strapped with oxygen masks.
The girl that contrasted life from death for him.
White as the bedsheets. She's as white as the bedsheets.
The girl that gave him life looked like it had been sucked out of her.
Pale. She is so, so unbelievably pale. She looks lifeless, and Wakatoshi sharply inhales a breath once he lays his eyes on her. His eyes grow wide and his chest tightens against his heart, his stomach falling into an abyss he can no longer reach.
He expected to see the flush of her cheeks, or the color of her skin, or the warmth in her eyes looking back at him. All that he'd gotten used to. Instead, he watches Hana's body rest like a corpse, under a white sheet. He wallows closer.
She is laying there, asleep, unconscious. Her eye bags are sunken in and her lips are visibly chapped too. They look a little pale, definitely not the lively pink they used to be. Her left arm is tucked under the sheet, her right arm sitting above it. The sheet covers her chest and her body that's shielded by a thin hospital gown, laced in hues of blue. Her wrist is so slim, and her forearm is hooked onto IV drips, needles, and so many pieces of tape are plastered over them. They cover her forearm with blotchy bruises. She has sensitive skin like him.
Her fingertips are bandaged, lightly wrapped around her curling fingers. He stared at her, marveling at her new appearance. She looks just as tired as she probably is. She lost too much weight for her own good. He can tell from her suddenly contrasting cheekbones and her cheeks that have been carved out and stripped of their color. He knows her legs are scrawny and thin from the two curves popping out from under the blanket. Her knees.
It seems as though her soul was a diamond necklaces she wore and flaunted her vivacity with, shimmering and beautiful. A jewel worn by a brighter jewel. Death, being the ultimate thief, stole it.
It tapered the layers of skin off her face and outlined her skull. It sculpted unhealthily bolder features and gave her a new face. It stole her from him.
Her head is back, her hair loose. It sits back in the luscious waves he recognizes. Soft, brown, gorgeous. Her forehead is wrapped in a white cloth of some sort, it goes all the way around. It's slipped under her hair, wrapped over and over. Her head is not resting on a pillow, just the bed. His guess, she was rushed in here too quickly for them to properly adjust her. Still, it's cruel to leave her like this. He sees a pillow on one of the two sofas in the corner, so he takes it.
He cups the back of her head gently before sliding the pillow under it. Her neck feels fragile, like it's made of glass or porcelain so thin it might shatter.
The thought that this drastic weight loss could've been caused by something else scares him. Could she have starved herself? The question inquires. She wouldn't do that. He takes a seat next to her, realizing just how much her eye bags grew in the span of a couple weeks. He stares at the lips he dreamed of. They're so different. She's warped into another person. He loves her still, that's not negotiable, but her state is heartbreaking to see.
It pains him to see her like this, like it's an open wound being scrubbed bare with salts. Aching everywhere, indescribable pain. It ruins him to think of how she got here, and what brought her to lay on this bed now. Nakamura's words echo, "She collapsed."
Collapsed.
Collapsed.
Collapsed. But why?
And it kills him, most of all, to know that he could've caught her. He could've pulled her out of this haze, hand-in-hand. He could've pulled her out of the storm. He could've been her backbone, holding her close until she could stand.
Now, as he sits in Room 637 of the eighth level of a hospital in Sendai, beside Hana, his grip on reality tightens. He glances over at her once more. She looks the same, her chest rising and falling slowly. Nothing's changed.
Suddenly, the room grows dark and his chest grows tight. His breath shortens and he realizes that he isn't supposed to be here. All of his thoughts come down at once to drown him and his throat clogs. He trembles strongly, looking down at his rattling hands that he wants to give away. Useless.
He glances at her again, and watches as the only luminous flame in his life gives out. She's not here. She's not awake, Wakatoshi. You let her slip away.
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Author: well shucks, isn't that just lovely 😀
THE VOICES
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Lavender | Wakatoshi Ushijima
Fanfiction'Everything seems to wash away with the tide and it's just two naïve kids staring at each other again, making promises to a future that isn't promised. A world they haven't seen, a life they haven't lived. A journey that's uncertain except for these...
