Daisies

Sometimes I think I'm seeing visions of the past. And sometimes I think that it's my own past that I'm seeing, sometimes not.

They're almost like dreams. Dreams about my life before I entered this peaceful place, this strange milky room that is always dripping water. What scares me the most about these dreams, though, is the boy. I never see his face, but somehow I know parts of it. I know he has full pouting lips, and a button nose adorned with freckles, and a wide pearly smile that gives him adorable dimples. But maybe I'm just imagining all these things. Although, sometimes I give up chasing after him and look at his quickly vanishing figure as it melts into the horizon, and I realize that I know him somehow. I know his voice, his heart, his soul, I know all of him. Except his name. I can never remember his name. And that bothers me.

I quickly look up and see that I am already staring at the ceiling again. It is dripping water into my eyes. I hold the flowers closer to my chest. They are daisies, pretty white daisies. My favorite, I smile slightly but my lips begin to ache. I lean down to smell the daisies, but I cannot. They remind me of the boy. Perhaps I should give them to him when I am asleep again. Or maybe I am awake when dreaming. This world is rather odd like that.

More whispers. More screaming. I think the screams are my own. No, no... I shouldn't think.

I hate it when I talk to myself. It's worse than when the whispers try to talk to me, because I know that it is unnatural. But there is no one else to talk to. Sometimes there are voices coming from above the ceiling, but I ignore them. They are from another world, one that is not safe for me.

"Can you hear me, darling?"

There is one of the voices. This voice is soft and gentle, but it is also sad. I don't want the voice to be sad, but I refuse to respond to it.

"Is she going to be okay?" There is that question again. That is the only thing I ever hear from the second voice, that single question. Today it angers me. I want to yell up at the voice, punch and kick the owner of it. But why?

I do not know. I don't know much of anything anymore.

No.

I realize then that the voice is right about asking that question. I am not okay, I have never been okay, and I never will be okay. I am surviving at best.

I clutch the daisies closer to my chest. They are wrapped in a nice bouquet. I examine them closely. They must be thirsty. I look up at the ceiling again and let the water pour into my eyes, waiting until it overflows before I hold the daisies up to my face, giving them a nice long drink.

I still cannot smell them.

The daisies remind me of the boy. They also remind me of the voices.

Maybe I should go back to sleep.