Disclaimer: Bleach is Kubo Tite's work. Borrowing.
Sterility
September 15 / Your eyes closed
12:15 091505
The room was small, painfully quadrangular. With white walls, white sheets, and white linoleum, it looked sanitary to the point of offensiveness—yes, he was a slob as a kid, so what? The smell of disinfectant wafted from elsewhere, further accentuating the aseptic feel of the hospital. It all seemed so sterile, so unanimated.
So dead.
There were flowers, of course, and other little trinkets to soften the severity of standard-issue furnishing. Division Four, despite the disproportionately small budget and respect given to them, had housekeeping responsibilities on top of their healthcare ones. They were good in making things homey and warm. (He secretly thought Unohana motherly, he had to admit.) This room, however, suffered from its sole occupant. Its white walls remained static and cold, because there was no human energy to bring colors and voices and feelings.
She wasn't like a doll, not with its airbrushed cheeks on a porcelain face. There were circles under her eyes, the color of a banana you stuck in your pocket early that morning when you peel it in the afternoon, mottled and mushed. Her skin practically blended with the environment. A breathing cadaver then.
Of course, she was hardly even breathing. The machines kept her suspended in life, but no, they didn't make her eyes open. There weren't instructions for that in their operating manual.
He was standing there now, taking his leave, but did that prove his cling to life was more tenacious than hers? She was supposed to be more stubborn than him, more optimistic, more earnest. But she was also failed by the two—three, counting him—people she trusted most, and maybe that sort of thing tended to loosen your grip on things. At least, two of those people were definitely sorry. Of course, that didn't make a difference, because the unapologetic one was the one who mattered most to her, the one that broke her.
"Taichou." A voice, hushed as people usually assume in places like hospitals and mortuaries, came from the doorway. "We're leaving."
Hitsugaya turned and acknowledged his vice-captain—no, he wasn't the only one teeming with questions, twisting with unsaid things, proud and strong and pained. "We'll meet the others at the gateway," he said, an idiotic statement, probably, to indicate he was in charge. He had his childish moments. So what?
He glanced a last time at his childhood friend as he exited out the sterile room.
Her eyes were still closed.
September 15, 2005 (23:58)