Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris - a useful Latin phrase that can be translated as "It is a comfort to the unfortunate to have had companions in woe." More commonly known as "misery loves company".
Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
The graveyard shift, at last; Cloud had been waiting for this moment. His eyes closed in feigned sleep, he continued to count. Thirty seconds - if there were no footsteps to be heard in thirty seconds, then the coast was clear.
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.
The midway mark, and still not a sound to be heard. Just a little longer, he promised himself, and continued to count under his breath. The quiet continued, into another five seconds. At last, the patrolling nurses and the like had tired themselves to retreat. If he were lucky, they were all either by the vending machines, or at the front desk.
...twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
His eyes promptly snapped open, darting back and forth a few times before he properly righted himself. As an added measure, he pulled the top sheet off his bed, and wrapped his self carefully in it, including his arms...especially his arms. The Geostigma wound that was slowly eating his left arm, in particular, was an unpleasant sight to behold, and one look at it from any of the staff would guarantee him trouble.
Geostigma - the black blood disease. It was not just an infection - it was like leprosy, and it would eventually eat its way through his flesh, his nerves, and perhaps his organs. He had been lucky to survive this long, but it would take a miracle for him to reach his forties. He had not been admitted to be cured; he had been admitted to await his inevitable fate. And the wait was slowly boring him out of his mind. At last, with a quick release of breath, he slipped out into the main hall. It wouldn't be much - just a quick stroll through from one end to the other - but if it was any chance to get some air and stretch his legs, he would take it.
As he expected, the hall was poorly lit, with half the lights on - probably one of those energy-saving measures again. The nurses all had flashlights on them, and the patients were not supposed to be out and about at this hour, so there was no real protest to be heard. There would be no one to witness his nightly walk, and he was grateful for that. Slowly, silently, he started to move forward, mentally counting each step that was as soundless into the carpet as the last. He knew the layout of this floor - had wandered through it for so many nights already - and he knew that it would take about sixty-five steps before he reached the front desk; he would have to double back at fifty-five, or sixty if he risked it.
Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five.
He paused for a moment, ears picking up sounds just ahead of him - something was going on at the front desk; probably why the nurses had stopped patrolling. He remained in his spot, keeping in mind that he was in between his thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth step. If there was a commotion, it was probably an emergency situation. If it was an emergency situation, then the nurses would soon come charging through the hallway with a gurney. And if that happened, he would no doubt face their wrath for being out here. Perhaps it was time to call his stroll to an early halt.
He was just turning to retreat when he heard a clearer, more distinct sound - it was a lady's voice, and from the high pitch, she was obviously upset. He checked himself again, wondering - what should he do? The curiosity was swelling in his gut, and he gambled a few seconds to count. He counted a total of ten seconds, and there was still no sign of the nurses moving anywhere. The sounds stayed where they were.
Finally did Cloud turn again, looking down the dark hallway to where the front desk was. And finally he took his thirty-sixth step. Then his thirty-seventh. Then his thirty-eighth. Still, he kept walking forward, determined to at least find out what was going on that night that was so out of routine. He reached the sixtieth step, and kept on going - there was no turning back now.
As the front desk came into sight, he saw that he was - for the moment - safe from detection. The four nurses that were taking the graveyard shift were all behind the desk, and in front of it was the young lady he had heard. The front of her once pretty blue dress was stained a rusty brown color, and there was more of it on her hands as she shouted and pleaded desperately. Blood, Cloud recognized. So much blood...yet none of it had to be hers, from the look of things. He checked the desk, and sure enough saw that the papers were coming out - all the forms about medical history, personal details and all that. The nurses were each trying their hardest to convince the lady to calm down and just fill those same papers out. The lady continued to plead and exclaim, and Cloud finally understood why - she was a foreigner, speaking a foreign tongue. And with absolutely no comprehension of the local's language. He felt a pang of sympathy for her, but there was nothing he could do - not even he knew the words she spoke.
It was then that he noticed a dark shape by the bench. There was only a moment's pause to ascertain that he would not be caught, before he once again advanced to investigate. As he stepped forward, he was certain he could hear a sluggish, but steady sound. Like tapping, or even dripping. The dark shape became a little more distinct - that of a person. The lady's friend, perhaps? He got closer, and the shape got more distinct. Finally, he saw the shape take full form, and his steps froze.
It was indeed a person lying on the bench - a young man around his age, with a head of tousled brown hair. The scar on his face rose questions about any kind of history that could be linked with it, and the jacket he wore - a leather bomber jacket with a fur ruff - probably meant he was either a biker, or a thug...or just another person who was trying to cut out his own identity.
And on his chest was a terrible wound that slashed angrily from his right shoulder to the middle of his torso. It was still bleeding profusely, turning the once handsome black material into a dirty brown. Even around him was a puddle of the thick red liquid, as it trickled across his side to fall to the floor one drop at a time. The mangled chest was barely moving, as the man's breaths were so shallow. As Cloud watched, he felt his own chest tighten. With the man in such a state, he would not last long enough for the lady and the nurses to reach any conclusion. Too little could be done, too late.
As Cloud stepped forward, to better take in the sight before him, he noted bitterly the bright red of the blood that wept from the wound - red, not black. Not like his. If he were not lying there, bleeding to death, this man should have the right to outlive him by so many years...he should have the right to have a proper life that involved family, children, and a peaceful departure at an old age. Not like this. If only...
Even as his mind wandered, the man on the bench suddenly jerked violently, his body wrought with shaking. Pained gasps escaped the hoarse throat, and a blood-soaked hand reached out blindly. And in that moment of the other's distraction, the hand caught hold of the partially black arm tightly. Cloud hissed sharply, the wretched infection making the limb so tender. Still, the grip was surprisingly strong, and grew tighter as the man continued to tremble and fight for breath. As Cloud stared down at the shaking form, he saw the man soundlessly repeating something over and over again. A word...probably a name...probably the lady's name. He turned his head, looked back at where the poor girl was still trying to get help, and listened to her carefully. She was getting more hysterical now, but he saw that she was repeating a single word in her sentences...
... Squall. That's your name, isn't it? Turning, he tried it on his tongue. "... Squall."
It was barely above a whisper, but the man seemed to hear it - for a moment, the vice-like grip slackened, and allowed Cloud to shift his arm. Hand soon found its way into hand, and Cloud's squeezed the man's gently, reassuringly. With this man who likely did not know his language, this was the only way to get his message across.
You'll be alright. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.
I won't leave you alone.
He humored the thought that the man - that Squall understood him, as the shaking started to settle. He was still fighting for every breath that jerked its way painfully through his body, still bleeding the bright red blood that fell to the floor and pooled around Cloud's feet. He was still fading, and Cloud could feel it in the hand that he held - he could feel its grip steadily getting weaker with each passing second. Cloud bit his lip, and applied a little more pressure to the hand that was slowing its response. His chest tightened again, and he knew - it would not be much longer.
Squall would not be suffering for very much longer now. And still his hand clutched on weakly to Cloud's, as though it were a lifeline.
His chest squeezed painfully, but Cloud refused to take his eyes off Squall. The voices in the background continued to carry. Behind him, the lady continued to hysterically plead for help that would not arrive in time. Behind him, the nurses - helpless in the face of protocol, paperwork and language barrier - continued trying to make her understand what they had to do.
Before him, Squall continued to slip away.
Neither hand would let go.
I usually don't write things involving death, mostly for the fact that I'm no good with it. This, however, was something I was determined to finish, properly and with dignity. No matter how many teeth I'd have to pull in the process.