Author's Note: Another prompt, another ficlet.
Prompt Table: Unthemed number one.
Prompt: Waiting.
Illusive Strokes
Cold coffee stained the inside of the cheap Styrofoam cup, it was eight fluid ounces of liquid insomnia that this doctor could not force herself to drink. The designer of this room had not been thinking of the occupants, as usually the case was when it came to this particular area of the hospital, grays always rested on whites or steal blues and plaster wall always met with speckled plaster ceiling tiles, pocked with too-bright fluorescent lights. Black, straight-backed chairs sat perched next to and against other black, straight-backed chairs, circling the room in a ring of opaque and uncomfortable shadows. The worried could not sleep here, it seemed, for if they did they would miss the stroke of the clock as it hit their fateful hour, the minute they should remember for the rest of their lives. Redemption or mortality fading to nonexistence.
Her fingers hurt, wrapped so tightly around the dark pads of her friend's hand, and she couldn't determine who's hold was stronger; his or hers. She was acutely aware that his other hand must have the same numbed throb that she felt in the one he clutched, for his wife's grip looked no less powerful than hers.
This wasn't her scene to be sitting in, her conscience warned; yet, hers or not, the phone call had woken her up in the late hours of the night, and her friend's voice had held a note in it, indicating that her intrusion was demanded not requested. And so, the uncomfortable notion that she shouldn't be there was mixed with the concern and fear, and her grip tightened. She had not been prepared for this; her faded t-shirt, re-worn jeans, and tangled hair a testament to her surprise. She was certain the seat she sat in should be reserved for someone else, but those someone else's sat sleeping on the other side of Kim, and she allowed the dual grip to tighten.
The trail on her cheek wasn't suppose to be there either, sparkling in the white glow of the room, and she did her best to ignore it as it disappeared along the curve of her jaw, where it joined the others in a wary reunion. She wished the ticking of the clock weren't so loud.
When the white lab coat walked through the double blue doors, fingers pulling up the ends of a medical chart, Natalie felt the grip on her fingers loosen and fall away. Frank didn't stand, however, and she understood that he was not the one who would rise and face the well rehearsed words. She felt the line of comfort disappear with his retreating hand and and silently cursed the rush of air against her damp face as she stood.
"How is he?" Her voice wavered like it belonged to the woman he loved, and she found herself understanding, with a new wave of panic, Frank's reason for calling her here tonight.
The clock struck a blurred number as she watched the familiar flicker of regret fill the messenger's brown eyes.