The Snow Is Falling Down
The snow is the first thing you notice [One again you lost something you were supposed to gain 2nd person
It was snowing. It was strange that it is the first thing you notice when you open your eyes after a long deserved nap. Outside the widnow, big snow flakes are falling down like fluffy miniature stars, staining the air with it's beautiful light in the darkness. Under a streetlight snowflakes dance like it is a storm, up and down, and then around, it's amazing, the snow, everything. You wish you were a small child again, that you can put on your warmest clothes and spend the whole day outside in the snow, just playing, being a kid.
You have one of those distant memories of standing outside in the snow, breathing in the cold air through her nose and then out of her mouth into the cotton covering it, warming your chin, and not so far away your older brother playing in the snow. You know you felt sad whenever you think of that memory, why you feel sad you don't really know, but it maybe is because of you brothers protectivness of keeping his friends to himself, and shut you out in the prosses. There are so many memories of that.
But it isn't your brother shutting you out you think of when you look out of the window, and out at the dark world. It isn't the memory of your husband standing with a red nose sticking out over a awfully green knitted scarf outside the library, and his completely grey eyes stuck at you, really stuck, and when his scarf slid down you had seen his smile, and that was the moment the rest of the world didn't matter, the only time you have ever experienced that, and you know that if you ever got a chance, only death would part you two- and it did. What you think about isn't something you think about that often, you haven't thought about it since you were a teenager, and that strikes you when the red backlights of a car peirce through the dark. Maybe you should stop before you head too deep.
You were thirteen, you know that for a fact, it was the begining of the year, and it was starting to blow up a storm, and the snow was stinging your eyes. But you stopped anyway, looking up at the steps up to the house you noticed your brother sitting, even though it was warm inside, picking up a stone he had trown it out into the street, and it had just passed by your ear, it just missing you, and he looked at you, and then he looked down on the white ground.
You still don't know why he was angry that day, and you can't figure out why you think of just that, nothing seemed to be right on this day, the day everything was supposed to be perfect. Perfect was over-rated. You have been told countless times that you were perfect, the perfect body, posture, smile, the perfect student, friend, and that made you resent perfect, made you self-harm just for the hell of it, because everything of being perfect just weighed down on you, and then it started to build, and build. But you guess no one ever gives up on the dream of something perfect, for once something that works out just right.
But then you see that you are not alone in the dark room, that someone else is in there too, and suddenly the air isn't enough, and the space in the room too little for your breaking heart and wandering mind. Your hand is clutching something hard, making your palm sweaty, but you don't care about your sweaty palms, you don't care if your make-up is smudged, if your hair is greasy, but you do care that the hand that is in yours belong to him, belong to anyone.
You pull your hand away, and it clutch to the white sheet, holding on tightly, you refuse to look at him, becaus you know what you will see; his eyes will be filled with that sadness and disappointment, and you will just want to scream this is so unfair! There is a border on the wall, and that is the only thing in this room that you can look at, because snow is something amazing, and this isn't
You jump when you feel his hand on her elbow, stroking the pale skin there, and you want to want him to comfort you, but you pull away, if he touch you one more time you'll cry, because five months of building hope just started to fade away into a big black hole, and the dark room seem so depressing, but you prefer it over light, because the light here is so bright and it will just push on the fact that you are in a hospital, in a hospital bed, not where you are supposed to be, not where anything in life should be leading. Once again you stick out from everyone else- you can't do anything right.
He is... you can hear his voice start, it is shaking, and you know what he is trying to say, and you want to kick and scream at the damned world that you can't get what you want when everyone else could. And you pull away even further, almost falling over the side of the bed. Your eyes glazing over and when you look out of the window to see the snow again, you can't see the snow through your tears, and all that leaves your mouth is a weak no, no, and then you don't know what to say, because no, no this can't be true, wake up! That's all that's racing in your mind. No, it screams inside your head, this is not right!
Holding on seems pointless, and so does breathing, but you struggle to breathe even though it is too hard to even think of the next breathe. Why are you allowed to breathe when he isn't? And why is it so hard to look at him, and see that he knows how it feels, that you aren't the only one who lost someone today.
You blame yourself, you're a doctor, it's your job to predict the unpredictible, because if you don't, who will?
Your hands are in your hair, pulling at it, and your squirming- your body is too little for all this pain, like it has been to little for so many other things. When you where thirteen you couldn't reach up to the highest shelf in your locker, and people laughed at you when they saw you jumping up and down to reach your books, but still you put your books up there- maybe you did it in a moment of absentmindedness, or it was a challange, to prove to yourself that if you fight, you will make it. But that you were thirteen once doesn't matter anymore, nor does the fact that you can't seem to reach as high as you aim, nothing seems to matter other than the fact that once again you lost something you were supposed to gain. And it hurts.
And he sits there, and you don't know if he's finally gained patience or if he's too ashamed to walk outside, he hasn't taken a single vicodin in the time he has been sitting in that chair, and you know that just being conscious at this moment is paining him, and you just want him to take his damned vicodin and leave you alone. But nevertheless he sits there, looks at you with eyes you know are pained, and he doesn't say a single thing.
It stops snowing outside, and something outside the room collides with the floor and results in a loud bang, breaking the suffocating silence in the room, and you open your mouth to breathe, breathing in the fact that the world is still moving.
It's strange that it is the fact that it was snowing that was the first thing you noticed, not his hand in yours, or the darkness in the room, and not the empty feeling in your stomach that is smaller than it used to be. He's not there anymore, it echoes in your mind, and it doesn't matter if you put your hand to your stomach, because you know that he's not in there anymore, you don't want to think of where he is.
You were going to name him Simon.