Virus: 3028

8

Virus 3028 marathon!

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When I wake up it’s 4:30am. I am about to go back to sleep but then I remember training starts in half an hour. I yawn and beg for being home and having to wake up for school at 7am. That was way better.

I stand up, however, and put on some clothes I find in a pile near my feet. Maybe someone put them there for me. They’re black pants, black shirt and black shoes. At least they aren’t camo.

I comb my hair with my fingers and then go out of the hospital room. The lights are already on. I walk a little and then I find Colonel Williams outside of a room, standing in front of a door, staring at the ceiling.

“Good morning, Colonel Williams”, I say. He turns around and sees me. He seems surprised.

“Soldier Green”, he answers.

“I was wondering if they were going to assign a room for me. I’ve slept in the hospital room, but I don’t think…”

“Yes. Room fifty-seven. It’s upstairs.”

“Thank you”, I smile. He doesn’t smile back, again. I sigh and walk past him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I hear Isabelle’s voice when I open the door to room 57.

“Colonel Williams said this was my room, too. So you better get used to it.” I answer and lay down in the bed in the right side of the room. The one in the left is Isabelle’s. She’s already dressed up with the uniform like I am. She is combing her dark, wavy hair with a hairbrush. “In coma?” I ask, reminding what Harry told me she said. “Really?”

She rolls her eyes. They’re dark brown.

“Hey, listen, that is what I assumed. I am sorry if you really weren’t in coma.” She shouts.

“Why are you sorry?” I ask, standing up. “You’re sorry I am not in coma? Do you even remember I was your best friend two days ago?”

“You didn’t want to be here anyway.” She answers trying to calm herself down. “And I didn’t want you to be here either.”

“Why?” I ask again. My voice trembles. I am struggling not to cry. Not in front of her. Not because of this. “Why?” I insist.

“Because you don’t deserve it! Nobody deserves this! I wanted to be a fashion designer, but I will not be a fucking fashion designer! I do not know what you wanted to be because you never told me, but you deserved to follow your dreams even if they were just dreams! That is why I hoped you were in coma, because maybe then you’d literally dream about it coming true!”

I shut up for a second, thinking about how should I answer.

“Don’t act like the victim now. You wished I was dead.” I accuse and point at her with my finger. “Fuck you.”

“No. I wish I was dead, present tense.”

She stares at me. She doesn’t know what to say and I don’t either. The silence in the room speaks for us.

“Oh, gosh…” I say. She runs over to me and hugs me, hiding her face in my shoulders. I hear her crying and I can’t do anything about it; I can’t help. I can’t tell her it’s going to be alright because I don’t believe that myself. “I am sorry, Isabelle, I am sorry…” That is all I say.

“Was it something I did?” She cries.

“What?”

“Yes. They didn’t even, like, interview me. They just listened to me saying my name was Isabelle and that I liked clothes and randomly went like: “we don’t care. We already have a job for you.” They said they didn’t care, but then again, they told us and made us think they actually did!” She screams. She lets go of my hug and looks at my eyes. Hers are so deep, so pretty…

“I wonder if I didn’t introduce very well or I don’t know”, she continues. “Because they did interview Carrie. And she is a fashion designer and I am not!”

“Maybe it was random”, I suggest.

“Or maybe we did something wrong.”

“You didn’t do something wrong.”

“You didn’t say the truth.”

And I realise she feels about me the way I feel about Harry: she thinks I’m a liar. She thinks I lie to make her feel better. So there’s no way I can help her. And it kills me more than any virus.