Shackles & Roses

Bailey's POV: 1K special

I look down from gazing at the ceiling of my room at the hospital, pulling my diary across onto my lap and a faint smile playing across my lips. The tube pumping life-giving medicines into my arm is itching, and I pull my blankets closer around me instead of scratching it. Last time I scratched it too much it got infected and had to be changed, which was not a pleasant experience. I do not want a repeat of that.

We're friends, the ceiling and I. I talk to it sometimes, when I'm left alone- not that that happens very often! I tell it about how my treatments are going, and all the things I'm going to do when I get out of here. I tell it about my family, and how much I love them. But mostly I talk about Alex. He's mostly what- or rather who- is on my mind. And not just because I'm ill and stuck in a hospital.

I say stuck. While I'm staying at the hospital. It's actually okay here. All of the nurses are really lovely except for this one mean one, and they do their best to make me comfortable and sneak me treats when the doctors aren't looking.

The one mean nurse takes the night shifts on Sunday nights most of the time, but she's on at other random points, too. I'm sure she's not really mean deep down, just finds her shifts difficult. I would, too, if I was her. Imagine spending eight hours through the night when you'd rather be sleeping, running around a hospital tending to mostly grumpy and in pain teenagers and young adults, all weak and ailing, most weak and thin and not very nice to look at anymore- myself included in that.

It's the shift no one else will do, and my respect goes out to her for taking it. I just wish she was a little gentler with the needles on my injections, and would spare more smiles than she does.

But then— she actually smiled at me the other day! It looked a little more like a grimace than a smile, but I could tell she was trying really hard, and I even got a small laugh out of her. I'd call that progress, and it definitely made my day.

Alex is here most days, sitting by my bedside whether I'm asleep or awake. Most of the time he holds my hand, or strokes my head, and he's always the first one to insist I'm given pain relief when it gets too much. The other day he tried to plait my hair for me, because I was too weak to reach up and do it myself. It didn't go very well, but it was some nice time to spend together, and quite funny, really! I still have it in, despite how many bits of hair have fallen out from it's loose folds. I usually get annoyed with them if they're all around my face, but I don't want to take the braid out. I could keep it like that forever just because he made it.

My parents visit a lot too. They both have to work still, and the girls have to be looked after, but they get here when they can. I don't mind if they don't make it often, though. Alex's here enough for himself and both of them, and I wouldn't want them to waste time over here in what can sometimes be a slightly depressing atmosphere when they could be having fun with the girls, and getting on with their lives. I'm happy here most of the time anyways.

They're trying their best; making the best of a bad situation. And I know it's bad. I know I probably won't get out of here to do all of those lovely things I tell my friend the ceiling. But it's rather lovely to dream about them, even if they're not reality. It's not an escape, really, just something enjoyable to do. A hobby. Sometimes I tell those things to Alex, and he'll write them down in case they'd be good for one of his poems.

Alex's poems. Oh, how I love them. Some of them are a little more like song lyrics, but that just makes them all the more beautiful. I try to get him to sing some of his best ones- to put a tune to them- but he always refuses. He wrote one for me once. It went something like:

Pretty as a petal
On a daisy head
Lovely as the rose

But I'd rather you instead.