White

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The walls of the room are whitewashed wood. The room sways, not because of the sickness but because it is part of a moving boat, carrying the shattered remnants of too few lives.

Cots are lined up in neat rows, organizing half - numbed pain into lines from its nonsensical forms.

Two beds in a crowded room, one in a corner, one on another side. One is empty, though it shouldn't be. Its habitual occupant does not particularly like sleeping in the bed that is near the side of the room. The occupant of the corner bed does not have the conscious power to feel anything, right now. To anyone else, they are two strangers, worlds apart. They have never spoken in their lives.

A fairly common mix of arrogance, ignorance, and the unwillingness to change.

The occupant of the cot on the side of the room is not in bed.

The two bed occupants are sleeping, the corner of the room steady with their deep, measured breathing.

He's lying on his back in the same position he's been in for the last two days.

She's in a chair next to them in the same position she's been in for the last two hours.

Her head is on his chest, and her mess of curly hair is spread in a reddish halo. Some kind nurse has gently combed out the matted snarls while the girl was asleep, rather than wake her. Best not to break the fragile, peaceful dreaming that has pulled them temporarily from their painful reality.

She has been sitting here for hours, waiting for him to come back to her. She is too numb for hope, too tired for the resting and the pain. She wishes distantly, without any real drive or passion. Everything lies with him. Everything is gone.

Their hands are interlaced and she keeps him alive, trying to fuse together the strange, unreal distance with their physical bond.

She hopes quietly because every time she dares, they fall to pieces.

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⏰ Last updated: Jul 22, 2017 ⏰

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