Vladimir's P.O.V.
I sat there quietly. Silence was ever lasting. So were I.
They didn't allow us to smoke in the hospital, but I couldn't care less. I lit up a cigarette and inhaled the nicotine. I liked how it felt, the smoke going down my throat, getting into my lungs, slowly killing me.
Time passed by. Hours, minutes, days, months, seconds; whatever, I didn't really care.
I felt nothing. Oblivion never felt so sweet, yet sour. I couldn't remember a thing; the past weeks were not clear in my mind, I could not remember last year's events either. I felt like something or someone was missing from me, yet, I stood there still, trying to forget that feeling.
I could avoid it. Numbness was the solution. I couldn't feel pain, yet I didn't have the possibility of feeling happiness, or any other positive emotion.
Actually, that state wasn't my first option. I tried killing me, drinking, and then drugs: but neither of these worked. So I ended up like this.
I looked quite fragile, I could tell that by the look in my mother's eyes: they were filled by sadness, empathy, and comprehension. Father didn't come to visit me. Our relationship was...actually...complicated.
My face was pale, and I had dark circles around my eyes. I didn't sleep well, I had a lot of nightmares and woke up in the middle of the night covered in sweat and trembling of fear. I usually shouted quite a lot while I dreamt.
Doctors came to visit me twice a week, and often asked me how I felt, for that question they would always get no answer: just a cloud of smoke in response.
My room was clean, almost spotless, I was kinda fanatical about celanliness. The bed was tidy, and there was no decoration in the room: all of it was painted in white, except the floor that was black.
There were no mirrors, and no paintings. I had a table, and next to it there was a big round window, with white curtains also. The table was were I passed most of my time. I sat there, opened my notebook and draw or write for hours. None of the doctors knew that I had the notebook in there. The things I drew were strange. Usually faces...demons...trees...fallen leaves...black birds...
A park was seen through the window. It was winter at the time, and snow covered the grass, that was rotting.
Hell is in earth, I thought, and then I exhaled the cigarette's smoke.