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It had been three years.
And every week it was the same.
She would enter the hospital at exactly 4:00 Saturday afternoon; walk up the stairs, down the hallways, past the familiar nurses and into Room 112.
In the room were two beds. On one lay a young, blonde-haired woman. On the other lay a young, auburn-haired man. Both never moved or changed; their coma stretching on year after year.
She would place a basket of flowers beside the woman's bed, replacing the dead ones from the previous week, murmuring, "Please wake up."
Then she would walk to the man's bed. "Remy," her voice always broke. "Ah'm so sorry." She would take his limp hand in her gloved ones, tears pooling in her red-on-black eyes.
For a few minutes, nothing would change. The only proof of the patients' continued life was the rising and falling of their chests and the regular beeping of the machines beside their beds.
Finally, she would place his hand back on his bed and stand up.
"Ah love ya Swamp Rat," she would whisper. Then she would walk quickly out of the room and she would be gone.
But every week she came back.
And every week it was the same.
A/N: When I wrote this I was in a rather depressed mood, so...sorry.
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