3Not at all my usual style, and I wrote this when I was in a not-so-happy state of mind a while ago. I was apprehensive about posting it as it's so not what I write but today, I thought, whatever.
So here goes.
Warning: It's all mine.
COMA
You walk in through the door, a deep sadness in your eyes. Your steps are slow, measured, as if you're afraid of what you will see. You nervously push your hair back in that so very familiar gesture.
But I can't see you.
You smell of vanilla and aftershave, an interesting mix and one that's remained your scent since time immemorial.
But I can't smell you.
"Hi, Xenia," you whisper softly. Your voice is the same, as it has always been, low, husky, comforting. And that richness to it is still present. But it doesn't break into the free, unrestrained laughter that it so often did a year ago. "How are you?" you ask.
But I can't hear you.
You bend over my lifeless body, so white, so limp, and you try to hide the fear in your eyes. You gently stroke my face.
But I can't feel you.
"Long time," you continue, trying to smile through your blurred eyes that have now welled up, as you knew they would, and you're doing your best to stop the white-hot tears from pouring down your face. "I still remember how we used to meet at midnight to have ice-cream and watch shooting stars."
But I can't remember you.
You sit on the chair besides, and glance silently at the various frightening machines taped to my body, and listen to the steady beat of my heart. We are there in quiet for awhile – but the quiet isn't awkward. It never was awkward between us. You think of old times, looking at my pale face, willing me to think about them too.
But I can't think.
You finally come over to me, and one lone tear from your eye drips onto my cheek. "Wake up, Zen," you whisper and your voice breaks. "Please."
But somehow, we both know that I never will.
Review, please. And don't be afraid to tell me that I should just stick to humour.
Ri