He pushed the trolley forward down the stark and sterile hall as he made a blubbering sound with his lips. He was bored, always bored on this job, but it was something for him to do, something to get his mind off blood – it was then, when he kept thinking about how ironic his job is.
Shaking his head, he pressed on. He passed one of the rooms, the door was slightly open. He thought he heard someone's voice—it was a familiar voice. He stopped, moving over to the side of the door and peeping in. He looked around, but no one was there. He can eavesdrop in peace.
They were talking about something. The girl had something, and judging by her voice, she was young, mid-twenties, but he didn't know. He swallowed the lump in his throat and peeked his head in. It looked like the girl was sitting on the bed, but the doctor was blocking him from seeing her. He cursed under his breath. He needed to know who the girl was. It was killing him. She sounds so familiar.
Finally, the doctor sighed, turning to leave. Mitchell pulled his head back and ducked by the trolley, pretending to count sheets as the doctor left the area. It coast was clear again, so he propped himself back up. He ran a quick hand down his scrubs, flattening the material. He peeped inside again, and he finally saw the girl.
Her head was down, looking at the folder. Her eyes were sad, and it almost seemed like she was going to cry, but she didn't. He knew who it was now. Of course it was her, but why is she here?
He ran a hand through his hair before stepping in casually, knocking on the door lightly. He stuffed one of his hands lazily in his front pocket and she looked up. She blinked a couple of times, as if she couldn't believe he was there. His presence seemed to make her eyes wetter with tears.
"Mitchell," her breathing was cut off by a half-squeak-half-laugh. Her lips curved up, she smiled ear to ear.
He smiled too, walking towards her. He was almost looming over her now, and she looked up to him, she still smiled. He looked at her. It's been so long, a couple of years, it must've been. Their little arrangement didn't work out in the end. A human, a vampire and a werewolf all living together—it's like the plot of a soap opera.
Everyone told them it was a stupid idea, but they were so adamant about making it work that in the end, it just fucked everything up for them.
George was going to get married and he needed his own place. Mitchell found it hard to quit blood, and that made him cranky—okay, maybe worse than cranky—it was a miracle they didn't stake him whenever he lashed out. And Annie…well, Annie needed a fresher start. She met someone, and like George, wanted to move in with her new partner. So, that left Mitchell in the empty pink house. The silence killed him, each and every day. He would've moved out, but he couldn't. It was the last thing he had left—the very last thing. He tried his best to not be there, though, not unless he had to. He would stay there when he had to sleep, but even then, he would seek the beds of others—that was if he didn't kill them first, but even then.
"How long has it been?" she asked, and he plonked himself down on the hard mattress beside her, crossing his arms.
"Three years, I suppose?" replied Mitchell. His eyes dropped down to his lap. It pained him, for some reason. It was good to see her, though.
"That's a pretty long time," she nodded. Oh lovely, he thought, we're at that hey-I-haven't-seen-you-in-years-now-things-are-awk ward stage of our relationship. He lamented over the thought. "How've you been?"
"I've been…well, I've been surviving, I guess." He said, looking at her. "What about you? Why are you here?"
Her smile vanished, and she looked away, looking down for a moment before looking back up. Her eyes were wet again. He didn't want her to cry.
"I've got cancer," she said almost too casually. Annie always tried to make light of tough situations, that's one of the things he loved about her. It was like nothing ever fazed her. But it did. She was just better at hiding it than the rest of them. You're a struggling, blood-sucking vampire? No problem! Just have sink your fangs into a blood-orange and you'll be A-Okay! You're a werewolf? Well, I've always wanted a puppy!
"What?" he gulped. He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. Why must bad things happen to good people?
"Yeah, ovarian," she said, breathing out. "I guess that ruins my chances of having little kids, eh? Ah, Owen won't like that one bit."
Owen? Who's Owen? That didn't matter right now. He could ask her later. She's doing it again, making light on her situation. "Is it curable? I'm sure they can cure it, right?" He was pleading now—how pathetic.
She can't leave him. But that's the inevitability of vampirism. They'll wither and die while you watch helplessly from the sidelines. Or they just leave you entirely. Too many people have done that to him—it can't happen again.
Annie shook her head, no, and he felt like his entire world had been crushed. Like a black hole had appeared and sucked everything into its centre. It's taken everything from him now. Are you happy now, God? Fuck you, man.
"It's spread," she finally said. "I didn't get in time. I'm gonna die, Mitchell."
"No," he said under his breath. "I won't let you die."
"I appreciate that, Mitchell," she put her hand on his shoulder. "Really, I do. But it's gonna happen. There's no point in fighting it."
"I'm not going to let you die, Annie. I can't."
She sighed, pushing his hair back with her hand, moving it from his eyes.
"You're so young, though. It isn't fair."
"Life isn't fair, sometimes. But you have to just push through, y'know? Make best with what you have."
"I want to help you," he said. His hands were in his lap, and he leant back and forward, shifting his legs as he did so. It was going to go into shock soon. "I know how to get aroun—"
"—no," she cut him off. She knew what he wanted to do. It was the only way she would live. He didn't want her to die.
"I'd rather die from cancer, than become a monster. I want to die with some humanity, Mitchell." He was taken aback by that, and she notice. She seemed to flinch before muttering an apology. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "Y'know what I mean."
"But I can't have you die."
"I can see how…unhappy…you are, Mitchell, and I don't want to be like that. I want to be happy and human. I want to live each day craving chocolate rather than blood. Do you understand what I'm saying?" she searched for his eyes, as if he was a guilty child and she was his mother, telling him that she was "disappointed" in him.
He didn't want to look at her at that point; it was hard for him to. She was going to die, he didn't want her to. He was willing to fight for her life. If she wasn't going to, he had to. He can't have her leave, too. He wouldn't know what he would do, then.
"You've saved me loads," he said, "Please, let me save you, now."
"You can't save me," she sighed. There was a pause.
"Let me try."
She ignored that. "I have to make a phone call." Annie announced, standing from the bed. "D'you want me to bring something back from the cafeteria on my way there? Some chips? A Mars Bar, maybe?"
He looked up, watching her for a moment. Her face seemed to have changed. Before, she looked just like she did a couple of years ago, but now, now that he knows that she's sick, her face changed. He could notice how her face was pale; her eyes were beginning to darken around, lack of sleep, he figured. She was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it. It made his stomach churn.
"Nah," he said, looking down. He couldn't bear looking at her withering away anymore. "I have to go back to work. But thanks."
He walked to the door and stopped next to her. She put her hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing the skin lightly. Almost out of instinct, he moved his head closer into her hand, relishing the feeling.
"I'm going to be here for a while—they want me to die comfortably, or something—so if you want to pop in, just knock on the door, yeah?" she pulled her hand away and he sighed, missing the warmth. Soon she'll be cold, dead, and in the ground, the earth eating her corpse. She wouldn't be able to do the things she wanted to do. Sometimes, when she couldn't sleep, or when she had a nightmare, she would go into his room, knowing fully that he was awake, and they would get under the covers and she'll tell him everything she wanted to do—she wanted to do a few things with George and Mitchell. Travel around, maybe. The thought helped her sleep on some nights. Mitchell missed those nights.
"Thanks," he muttered, watching as she trotted out the door. Annie wrapped herself up in her cardigan, shivering. It wasn't cold in the hospital, it was a little warm, actually, but he knew why. It saddened him even more.
His shift was finishing in five minutes, and he figured that he should visit Annie before he went home. The idea of her being a vampire went through his head all day. What would happen to her, though? If he were to turn her? He didn't want her to turn into a monster, but maybe they can help each other out? Argh, this is so hard. When his shift finished, he went to the cafeteria and ordered a hot chocolate—it was shitty, he had to admit, but it was his routine, and he liked having constants in his life. The girl working at the counter gave him a discount; she'd always had a little crush on him.
He found Annie sitting on a bench near the back. Her elbow was resting on the table, and she had her cheek in her hand. There was a cup in front of her, but she didn't drink it, she just swirled the drink around with a wooden stick. She looked sad.
He walked over to her and took the seat opposite to her. Her eyes flicked up and she smiled, sadly, but she still managed it. He was proud of her for that.
"Are you okay?" he realized he never asked her that. He was so fixed on his problems that he had totally forgotten about her feelings on the matter.
"I'm pulling through but…" her words dragged on, her eyes flicked back down to the table.
"But what?" he asked, his head bobbing.
She looked back up. "Owen, uh, he didn't take it well."
"What'd you mean?"
"He's my fiancé—or he was, I guess. I only just learnt today that it was going to kill me and I guess he just couldn't take it so he left. Starting yelling into the phone and, uh,"—her swirling became quicker and quicker—"It sucks, you know? Because I thought he loved me. He did propose to me, anyway. But at the first sign of trouble, he just packs up and leaves me. How fucking selfish is that?!" She was so angry now. Her swirling had gotten more aggressive. So much so that coffee spilled out, falling onto the table.
"Fuck," she muttered angrily, grabbing the hem of her shirt, rubbing the stain. Realizing what she had done to her shirt, she groaned, slinking back into the chair. It seemed like she was about to crack at any moment. "What am I doing wrong?!" she asked, her voice cracking. It was like watching a baby getting punched. "Why is this happening to me? What did I do, Mitchell?"
He sighed and moved over to sit next to her. He snaked his arm around her shoulder, bringing her in for a tight hug. No one was really around, and he was thankful for that. The girl at the cashier looked at him, biting her nails, but she nodded and looked away, fully understanding.
She cried for a while, and then she pulled away.
"Sorry, I got a little water on your scrubs," She rubbed her red nose and wiped her face with her cardigan.
"It's fine," he assured her.
"Hey, Mitchell?" she asked, looking up at him.
He rubbed her shoulder, looking down at her, trying to smile. "Yeah?"
"Do it."
He wasn't so sure anymore. Was that crazy?