White Wide World

Bitter World

Once again I'm walking down the long white halls with the squeaky linoleum floors. The doctors have moved my old man to another part of the hospital, but still, I'm back again. My reason for being here is ridiculous really, what am I even thinking? Since when did I start caring about other people? Much less some girl. But still, here I am with three tulips in one hand. I saw them down at the supermarket when I was out to get some food. I have no idea why the pink, red and yellow tulips reminded me of her, but they did. Why the hell do I always have to act on impulse? Sure it's the thing that makes me win, but it gets me into a hell of a lot of trouble as well. Usually with someone a little scarier than a unconscious woman.

The nurse I scared a few days ago is still giving me longing looks. How come girls like that are attracted to guys like me? They should go out with some rich doctor; they would never be satisfied with a guy like me. Girls like that nurse want a guy like me in a classy suit with a lot of money. The truth is, I would rather walk around naked than wear a suit. When I really dress up I wear cargo pants or jeans, but then I'm also trying really hard. Now that we're at all the confessions, I'll tell you this: I don't own a dress shirt, it's just not my style. I don't think I've ever worn a dress shirt, not that I've ever had a good reason to wear one either.

When I arrive the room is empty except for her. She's still lying in the same position as always.

"Hi there Angel," I say, smiling at her. I didn't even realize that I did it before I wiped it off quickly. This "being nice" shit is starting to scare me. Since when did I start to smile? I mean seriously? Smiling isn't my thing, I think my smile looks more like a threat than a caring gesture. I look around in the hospital room and shortly after I find a vase for the tulips. I fill a little water in there, and stuff the flowers into the see-through glass vase. I admire my work for a long while. Who could've know I had skills as a florist.

"I brought you some flowers," I tell her as I put the vase on the small table beside her bed. I pull the wooden chair closer to the bed and kick off my shoes. I stretch my legs out in front of me, my muscles are aching from the hard work they've been doing.

"I won some money today, so while running to the super market I saw them, I thought they were quite... pretty." I frown at my words. Pretty? I can't remember the last time I called anything pretty.

"Don't tell my old man though, he would think I've gone soft. Not like that's ever going to happen. You know what they say, 'you can't learn to be a fighter, you just are one'," I say with a chuckle. I throw my feet up on the edge of the bed so I can sit more relaxed on the stiff wooden chair.

"So how was your day? Boring? Thought so. You know, if you woke up, then you could have a bit more fun than you're having now, but I guess it isn't that easy is it?" I look at her calm face. I wonder what her smile looks like, what her eyes looks like. A strand of hair has fallen in front of her face. So I reach over and push the silky hair out of her face. Her hair looks knotted, like it hasn't been combed for some time now. In the drawer in the small table by her bed I find a brush. I start running the brush through her hair.

"I did this to my mom when she was ill, she was always a very dignified woman, and absolutely hated when she didn't look her best." I smile lightly at the memory—one I hold very dear to me. My mother was a strong, beautiful woman. When she fell ill, she would see no one because of her state. She never asked me to help her, but I always did.

"It's some time since I've done it," I say as I part her hair into three pieces and start making a braid. My rough hands are a bit clumsy with the delicate strands of hair, but I soon remember how to braid them together. I don't have anything to tie it with so I just let it hang loose down over her shoulder.

"When mom was at her worst, I would braid her hair every morning, because she was too weak to do it herself. Then I would just sit and hold her hand until I had to go to school. I always feared that when I came back, she would be gone." During my talk I must have taken her hand because I'm cradling her small hand in my big one. Her fingers are slightly swollen from the lack of use, whereas mine are swollen from my fight. Her hand is soft and pale, whereas my hand is rough, battered and bruised. Scars run across my hands like paint does on a canvas, both new and old ones marks the skin on the back of my hand. They show what I refuse to tell: a tale of a life-time of fighting, a life-time of being alone.