Dandelion

by xxskyWriterxx

It's a very pretty day today, Numbuh Four. I have shaken your shoulders and whispered to you with the gentlest words, but you just lay like a stone on your hospital bed. Your eyes, they can't see. Not even the sky. The coma has taken you for itself.

6. Day Six

Dear Wallabee,

Coma is a pretty word. I thought it to myself during school today: coma coma coma coma. It could be the name of the most magical river. It could be the name of a beautiful place or a beautiful person. Coma like the most beautiful sound. How can such a delicate word mean such a terrible thing, Wally? I don't understand.

The coma has nearly dragged you away. I can tell as I hold your stony hand in mine. The coma's icy fingers claw deep into your very small self, piercing you with its cruel, steely chill. Sometimes by looking at you I cannot see the drops of life that still gleam from deep inside you. If it weren't for the beep beep beep of your pulse, you would be all but dead. You with your beetle-black eyes that I haven't seen in a whole week. Granite skin. Your limp straw hair. Dandelion hair.

Could you be a dandelion, Wally? A dandelion sticking its golden head through canyons of tumbled concrete: a bloom of life amongst the dead. Can you do it, Wally? Can you? Please tell me that you can. I know that you can. You will escape, wrench away from the coma's tendrils and come stumbling into the daylight. One day soon, I will look over you and find myself sinking into your eyes. Open eyes. Eyes filled with the sun's fire and the moon's milk and the frosty glow of the stars . Eyes like diamonds. I will see them again. I am sure.

Get well soon,

Kuki