Violet Baudelaire had been sitting for three hours.
She counted every minute. Every second. Nervous white fingers twisting around the hem of a white hospital gown; dark eyes staring blankly at whatever vast fantasy her mind had spun. Shallow breathing, accompanied by the rustling of cotton sheets beneath her, were the only sounds in the room.
Beside the bed, there stood a small silver trolley with a slice of chocolate cake on top. Two balloons had been tied around the handle, both of which were dark purple. Happy Birthday! read one. Happy Anniversary! read the other.
Three hours and sixteen minutes.
It was her nineteenth birthday, and her one-year arrival anniversary. For three-hundred and sixty-five days, she had been living in St. Devereaux Asylum. Locked away specially, under care of three doctors and several interns.
The nurses all prayed for her. Not because it was expected of them, though most people could find it in their hearts to pity such a poor young thing. Bravery huddled beneath the blankets of her silence. Nightmares behind curtains of dark hair.
And that's why...
"...Lord, please find it in your heart to comfort Violet Baudelaire. I know she's been through something horribly bad..."
"Please -- please bless her, in her catatonic state, that she might know there are those who love and care about her."
But they're not entirely sure about it, themselves. She was brought in by a man wearing tan breeches and a dusty pink coat, which had shredded arms. He didn't leave a name -- only set her, very gently, on the floor in front of the glass doors and walked away. It seemed as though there was no emotional attachment. His eyes held no tears, no look of fear or pain or regret.
How was anyone to know that she was loved, after such a mild exhibition of kindness -- most likely kindness from a stranger?
And he would have to have been a stranger. Very few eighteen-year-old girls know men with hooks for hands.
e.n.d.