Daisies

There is light, and it glows everywhere. Something is hovering above me and I cringe away from it, ignoring the urge to shield my face with my hands.

"She's unresponsive."

That sound... it is familiar. It is the whispers. They are finally making sense. But then I realize that they made sense all along. I was the one who did not dwell among the world of sense. I was the one who refused to truly listen. Now I try to listen closely, eager for more of these answers.

"No, doctor. She's going to make it through this! I refuse to believe otherwise!" Another voice, but this one is not a whisper. It is very familiar.

"Son, sit down a moment please." A heavy sigh and the sound of plastic rubbing against the floor. "We've done everything we possibly can."

I do not understand what they are saying anymore. All I understand is that the boy is crying. He is crying tears of anger and sadness.

I need to comfort him somehow. I try to reach out to him, but I cannot control my body. It is useless, meaningless.

I need to open my eyes, but it is already too bright in this place. I have a feeling I am not in the white room anymore. The white room is the only safe place, but I cannot go back. Safety of that kind is not part of this life, I know now. I cannot stay away from fear forever.

So I open my eyes.

It is so bright, it burns me, and my eyes water. It is a different kind of watering, though. Not what I am used to. This is painful, and I feel strange. Out of place. Everything is so real, so sharp, as if knives are digging into my skin. I can sense things here, I can see, I can hear, I can small, I can feel. Can I speak?

After the water drains away, I look around me in awe.

It is beautiful here. The windows have curtains, and there is a door to my left. Strange contraptions are littered around the small room and a metal cart is parked close to the door. I am lying on a bed. It is white, just like the walls, but it is not the same as the white room. It is very different. It smells of something strong here as well, like bleach or alcohol. It hurts my nose.

There is a man sitting on a chair beside me, peering down at a clipboard and jotting notes with a fancy black pen. He does not notice my small movements at all. I look to my right, and there is the boy. He is sitting in another chair, although this one is plastic and looks uncomfortable. He is leaning over the armrest, his head in his hands and his face covered. I really wish that his face had not been covered. I always wish to see him in my dreams, and now in reality, he is still hidden from me.

I open my mouth to speak to him, to comfort him, but it is too dry. I think I have been screaming too much.

I swallow a gulp of my own saliva before squinting my eyes and reaching out to touch the boy's hand with my own, finally able to move. He jumps, startled, and looks down at me with weary blood-shot eyes.

"Libby?" His voice is so beautiful, so hopeful.

My name...? Yes, yes that is my name. He knows who I am.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out besides another scream.

The doctor's pen stops scratching against paper and he pushes his glasses up on his nose, his mouth open in surprise. But I do not glance at him for very long, for I am captivated by the boy's face.

He really does have a button nose with freckles and beautiful full lips. Along with delicate skin, high cheekbones, a wide forehead, and matted brown hair, as if he had been pulling on it. There was a small pimple on his nose, hidden among the freckles, and his eyes were wide and brown. His lips parted in awe as his pretty dark eyes met my own. But they were not smiling.

I had yet to see those dimples.