Copper wires and silver strands held the rough bouquet of wild flowers together, as they wilted subtly from too much sun. It did not matter to Adam; the flowers were not supposed to be perfect—but to represent his relationship—because there was nothing, which could be adhered to the word "perfect". Not in this world. But the natural beauty of the flowers came close.
As he peered out into the dim morning light—filtering softly through the thick, grey cloud cover—Adam decided that it was the very flaws in things which made them beautiful. A "perfect" example being Joan. She was so flighty and impulsive but—like his art—there seemed to be a message just beneath her surface, something more than flakiness and fear. And right now she was wilting like the flowers he had prepared for her. Right now she was a ghost story that he wanted to believe, but could not.
The hospital corridor seemed blue to him—like it was painted in melancholy—and Adam hesitated as he made the short walk to the elevator. It would be a lie to say that he was fond of hospitals—"who was?" he told himself—but for Joan he was willing to ignore the ice-cold feeling that washed over his skin when he entered one. Willing to try.
Cautiously he pushed open the door to her room, noting Helen sitting tensely on the couch before his eyes found Joan. She looked cold and dry—despite her fever—as if the thing that made her "Jane" to him was gone, like water in a well.
"Adam," Helen rubbed her eyes lightly with the back of her hand, "hey."
"How is she?"
"Sleeping. She's going to be okay though, her fever's down and the doctors say she'll be good as new after a little while," she reassured him.
Extending the small bunch of flowers towards Helen Adam looked over at the bed, the awkward feeling of an intruder, even if Joan felt like family, she was not.
"Can you?" he asked quietly as Helen took the flowers from him, "I'll come back when she's not sleeping."
Helen nodded before replying, "You should stay, Joan should be awake soon, and I for one am in desperate need of a coffee," she smiled brightly, much more brightly than she was feeling as her only daughter lay in a hospital bed hallucinating.
All Adam could do was try and smile back as Helen headed for the door—approaching the couch with an amount of caution—as he tried to fight the empty feeling in his stomach that tied itself into knots when he thought about Joan's cold treatment of him the last time he had seen her. When she had made her confession. Adam allowed himself a wry smile at the absurdity of "confessing" that you believed in God when so many others would confess to having gone against His word.
His existence was not something that Adam would admit he had really thought about; since his Mother had died, it was difficult for him to think that someone was responsible. Adam was scared that if he did then he would become bitter and jaded, instead he had become detached. Until Jane.
His pain was slow and turning, a permanent feature of his life but Joan's pain seemed kinetic, always moving, always changing. She soaked in the pain of others and resolved to fix it, or at the very least take away as much as she could. She had done that for him when nobody else had tried, not even his best friend. She was the only one who could transform her own pain—hide it for a while—to help the most unlikely of candidates.
As he watched her motionless—neck to toe in off-white sheets—surrounded by the bland interior of the wardroom she did not feel like his Jane. Adam was scared that he was the one who had left her so hopeless and void. He reassured himself that it was most likely her illness, or possibly the drugs that they pumped into her veins through cold metal and soft plastic tubes.
Joan stirred—the sheets rustling through the silence Helen had left the room in—turning in her sleep so that she was now facing towards him—eyes fluttering—as called out softly for her Mother.
"Jane," he moved up the couch towards her.
"Adam?" her voice was laced up with embarrassment and disappointment, "where's my Mom?"
"She went for coffee," he replied, standing to gather up his flowers. Slowly he made his way across the short distance to her bed, laying the bouquet on the covers her to her, "I, uh, couldn't find a vase," he nodded towards the dresser covered with flowers, filling every available vase. Small sentiments from far-away family.
Picking up the bundle Joan shifted her weight further along the bed to make room for Adam to sit down; looking up hopefully her voice was quiet and worried, "they're beautiful," she reached to the dresser, leaving them among the masses, "thank you."
After the niceties were taken care of neither of the pair knew what to say, too unsettled and unsure from the proceedings of the time before when words just got them in trouble.
"How are you?" he asked tentatively.
Joan nodded silently, with sad eyes.
"I'm sorry, Jane."
A pause flooded the air as she tried to speak through tense breathing.
"Okay," she avoided his gaze, fingering the cold cotton covering her in an attempt at distraction.
"Please talk to me. I hate that we're like this," he pleaded, "Jane?"
"I'm kind of tired…" she started.
Looking defeated Adam lifted his hands in a show of backing down as he stood, trying to keep a wrap on the feelings racing through his blood, making him feel as feverish as Joan looked. Before he reached the door, Adam turned back, making a decision as he did.
"I believe in you, Jane," he offered.
Sitting up a little straighter Joan let herself make eye contact.
"I can't believe everything you do, that would be boring, yo?" he paused, gauging her reaction.
Joan's eyes clouded over, but she had not tuned out yet. She was giving him a chance and that was more than Adam had expected, he should have learned never to expect anything from Joan.
"Uh, I don't really think about God, but if you can then I guess that's good," he took a deep breath, nodding before he opened the door to leave.
"Adam!," he looked back at her, eyes shining with fear, "nobody believes me, they think I'm like crazy what if it's like the other Joan?" she asked irrationally.
"They don't burn people anymore."
"But they'll still think I'm crazy, danger to myself and others, who needs to e minded by guys in white coats," she cried. Tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. "I shouldn't have said anything."
Adam's throat suddenly felt dry, licking his lips he made his way back towards Joan—sitting by her on the bed—his hand brushing over hers until his thumb hooked under her palm.
"Heh, people didn't believe the world was round," he let a small smile creep into the corners of his mouth as Joan clung to his hand, "but that doesn't mean they were right, Jane."
Through thick tears, she smiled back messily. Overcome by a cocktail of painkillers and relief.
"It took someone… different to prove them wrong, someone like you," he finished.
"Different?"
"Special," he amended grinning.
The door creaked open on un-oiled hinges as Helen poked her head around the door holding two cups of coffee.
"Hey," she ventured with a soft smile.
Adam stood quickly, a slight blush covering his cheeks.
"I should go," he stated, letting go of Joan's hand. Leaning down he kissed her lightly on the cheek and nodded to Helen before making his way out the door.
"Bye, Jane."
Outside the room, the hospital corridors were still washed in a melancholy blue, but behind the doors, the light was brighter—stronger—than it had been before his visit. The sun was slowly burning a hole in the clouds and although it wilted the flowers, Adam knew that it was also the same thing, which gave them life. The world was that complicated, but it was these imperfect things—along with all their flaws—that were beautiful. Just like Jane.
As he peered out into the dim morning light—filtering softly through the thick, grey cloud cover—Adam decided that it was the very flaws in things which made them beautiful. A "perfect" example being Joan. She was so flighty and impulsive but—like his art—there seemed to be a message just beneath her surface, something more than flakiness and fear. And right now she was wilting like the flowers he had prepared for her. Right now she was a ghost story that he wanted to believe, but could not.
The hospital corridor seemed blue to him—like it was painted in melancholy—and Adam hesitated as he made the short walk to the elevator. It would be a lie to say that he was fond of hospitals—"who was?" he told himself—but for Joan he was willing to ignore the ice-cold feeling that washed over his skin when he entered one. Willing to try.
Cautiously he pushed open the door to her room, noting Helen sitting tensely on the couch before his eyes found Joan. She looked cold and dry—despite her fever—as if the thing that made her "Jane" to him was gone, like water in a well.
"Adam," Helen rubbed her eyes lightly with the back of her hand, "hey."
"How is she?"
"Sleeping. She's going to be okay though, her fever's down and the doctors say she'll be good as new after a little while," she reassured him.
Extending the small bunch of flowers towards Helen Adam looked over at the bed, the awkward feeling of an intruder, even if Joan felt like family, she was not.
"Can you?" he asked quietly as Helen took the flowers from him, "I'll come back when she's not sleeping."
Helen nodded before replying, "You should stay, Joan should be awake soon, and I for one am in desperate need of a coffee," she smiled brightly, much more brightly than she was feeling as her only daughter lay in a hospital bed hallucinating.
All Adam could do was try and smile back as Helen headed for the door—approaching the couch with an amount of caution—as he tried to fight the empty feeling in his stomach that tied itself into knots when he thought about Joan's cold treatment of him the last time he had seen her. When she had made her confession. Adam allowed himself a wry smile at the absurdity of "confessing" that you believed in God when so many others would confess to having gone against His word.
His existence was not something that Adam would admit he had really thought about; since his Mother had died, it was difficult for him to think that someone was responsible. Adam was scared that if he did then he would become bitter and jaded, instead he had become detached. Until Jane.
His pain was slow and turning, a permanent feature of his life but Joan's pain seemed kinetic, always moving, always changing. She soaked in the pain of others and resolved to fix it, or at the very least take away as much as she could. She had done that for him when nobody else had tried, not even his best friend. She was the only one who could transform her own pain—hide it for a while—to help the most unlikely of candidates.
As he watched her motionless—neck to toe in off-white sheets—surrounded by the bland interior of the wardroom she did not feel like his Jane. Adam was scared that he was the one who had left her so hopeless and void. He reassured himself that it was most likely her illness, or possibly the drugs that they pumped into her veins through cold metal and soft plastic tubes.
Joan stirred—the sheets rustling through the silence Helen had left the room in—turning in her sleep so that she was now facing towards him—eyes fluttering—as called out softly for her Mother.
"Jane," he moved up the couch towards her.
"Adam?" her voice was laced up with embarrassment and disappointment, "where's my Mom?"
"She went for coffee," he replied, standing to gather up his flowers. Slowly he made his way across the short distance to her bed, laying the bouquet on the covers her to her, "I, uh, couldn't find a vase," he nodded towards the dresser covered with flowers, filling every available vase. Small sentiments from far-away family.
Picking up the bundle Joan shifted her weight further along the bed to make room for Adam to sit down; looking up hopefully her voice was quiet and worried, "they're beautiful," she reached to the dresser, leaving them among the masses, "thank you."
After the niceties were taken care of neither of the pair knew what to say, too unsettled and unsure from the proceedings of the time before when words just got them in trouble.
"How are you?" he asked tentatively.
Joan nodded silently, with sad eyes.
"I'm sorry, Jane."
A pause flooded the air as she tried to speak through tense breathing.
"Okay," she avoided his gaze, fingering the cold cotton covering her in an attempt at distraction.
"Please talk to me. I hate that we're like this," he pleaded, "Jane?"
"I'm kind of tired…" she started.
Looking defeated Adam lifted his hands in a show of backing down as he stood, trying to keep a wrap on the feelings racing through his blood, making him feel as feverish as Joan looked. Before he reached the door, Adam turned back, making a decision as he did.
"I believe in you, Jane," he offered.
Sitting up a little straighter Joan let herself make eye contact.
"I can't believe everything you do, that would be boring, yo?" he paused, gauging her reaction.
Joan's eyes clouded over, but she had not tuned out yet. She was giving him a chance and that was more than Adam had expected, he should have learned never to expect anything from Joan.
"Uh, I don't really think about God, but if you can then I guess that's good," he took a deep breath, nodding before he opened the door to leave.
"Adam!," he looked back at her, eyes shining with fear, "nobody believes me, they think I'm like crazy what if it's like the other Joan?" she asked irrationally.
"They don't burn people anymore."
"But they'll still think I'm crazy, danger to myself and others, who needs to e minded by guys in white coats," she cried. Tears slipping from the corners of her eyes. "I shouldn't have said anything."
Adam's throat suddenly felt dry, licking his lips he made his way back towards Joan—sitting by her on the bed—his hand brushing over hers until his thumb hooked under her palm.
"Heh, people didn't believe the world was round," he let a small smile creep into the corners of his mouth as Joan clung to his hand, "but that doesn't mean they were right, Jane."
Through thick tears, she smiled back messily. Overcome by a cocktail of painkillers and relief.
"It took someone… different to prove them wrong, someone like you," he finished.
"Different?"
"Special," he amended grinning.
The door creaked open on un-oiled hinges as Helen poked her head around the door holding two cups of coffee.
"Hey," she ventured with a soft smile.
Adam stood quickly, a slight blush covering his cheeks.
"I should go," he stated, letting go of Joan's hand. Leaning down he kissed her lightly on the cheek and nodded to Helen before making his way out the door.
"Bye, Jane."
Outside the room, the hospital corridors were still washed in a melancholy blue, but behind the doors, the light was brighter—stronger—than it had been before his visit. The sun was slowly burning a hole in the clouds and although it wilted the flowers, Adam knew that it was also the same thing, which gave them life. The world was that complicated, but it was these imperfect things—along with all their flaws—that were beautiful. Just like Jane.