A Chance Meeting

Part 4

"Excuse me, um, miss? Miss Sara? Would you like to eat?"

A perky nurse awakened Sara from her slumber, even though she couldn't hear her words. Wiping the grogginess from her eyes, Sara peered over towards the door, trying to make out the figure.

Starched white uniform and a cocoa-colored face above it, two slender hands holding a hospital-issued tray, heaped with stereotypical hospital food. But Sara couldn't make out the details like she usually could- the fingers were a little blurred at the edges, colors not as sharp as they usually were, lines not as defined.

A jot of panic slipped down her spine and then sped up what had been the steady beat of her heart. The nurse walked over and set the tray down carefully on the desk next to Sara's bed, then looked at Sara, concern clearly written all over her features.

"I'm fine," Sara lied politely. "I just had a nightmare again. The bomb and all." She turned her attention to the food. "This looks lovely, thank you."

The nurse smiled and exited the room, and Sara picked up the tray and set it into her lap. A small portion of plain white mashed potatoes sat in one corner of the red lunch tray, salty crackers in another, and a small bowl of soup (it appeared to be tomato that day) rested in the very middle, thin tendrils of steam rising off the surface. Sara withheld a sigh and picked up a plastic fork, delicately wrapping her fingers around it. She stuck it into her mashed potatoes and moved it into her mouth, moving it around slightly before swallowing it.

It was painful to swallow, but Sara was used to pain. After all, she had lived with it every minute, every hour, twenty-four/seven, every month for the past two years of her life.

She calmly ate some of her food, then set the half-full tray back on the worn wooden desk and turned her attention to the roof, scotting back down to rest her head on her pillow. Sara let her gaze grow vague as she counted the tiles on the ceiling for the umpteenth time, trying to fall asleep as the numbers slipped soothing across her mind.

Her eyes were slowly fluttering closed as the door opened again. She held back the scowl of annoyance at being awoken again.

"What would you like?" she sleepily asked, knuckling the languidness away. After blinking a few times, she squinted at the tall, slender figure in the doorway and sat up, suddenly a little more alert.

Even though he was blurry and she had only met him a couple times, Sara felt a connection to the teenager in her doorway. After all, she had heard his voice, the first thing in two years. It had given her hope- hope that maybe she was getting better, that the drugs they were shoving into her were finally taking effect.

But another week had gone by, and she hadn't heard anything, nothing but a high-pitched buzzing sound that rang over and over and over in her eardrums. She was getting used to it though, as it had been over a week since it started. The day after he left, she'd had the worst migraine of her life. She'd thrown up off to the side of her bed, spraying half-digested food everywhere. Her head pounded and throbbed, aching to the point where tears pricked her eyes. Her heartrate had skyrocketed, beeping at an ungodly pace, fast enough to bring the nurses thudding down the halls, their footsteps rivaling her heartbeat.

It had faded after a day or so, allowing her to fall back into her deep sleep patterns, where she felt nothing other than uncontrollable joy, freedom, and just a little hint of sadness that sometimes reminded her of what she had lost. She held onto those moments when she was awake, because even in darkness there is light.

And now he was back. It was clear just from his stance, the fake confidence with which he held himself, as if he weren't sure how he was supposed to act, but he was going to fake the heck out of it anyway.