Categories > Original > Drama


by Lines 0 reviews

Terrence sits in the waiting room and does just that, blooding lacing the white of the hospital floor.

Category: Drama - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst,Drama - Published: 2007-10-30 - Updated: 2007-10-31 - 809 words - Complete

Everything is white; white linoleum, white ceiling, white coats, white shoelaces, bright white fluorescent lights. The walls are pale blue, yes, but even they accentuate the pale and touch lightly over the blue. Everything is white, and Terrence’s foot is tap-tap-taping insistently on the floor, and HelloMyNameIs Mary shoots him a mostly sympathetic look and smiles, and, damn, even her teeth are a gleaming unrealistic white.

There’s a man in the corner with his hand bent back at a painful looking angle, with his eyes glued to the ceiling and a certain paleness to his face. There’s a kid with thick and purple bruises down his face and arms, standing out viciously against the sallowness of his skin, and his mother beside him looks frail and afraid. There are spots of blood trailing across the floor from the door to the desk to the long stretch of hallway, left behind by a man who had come in mere minutes ago and been swept away down that corridor, with his jeans torn open and horrible deep gashes on the exposed skin there, along with that of his arms, and his face, and his neck.

Terrence had tuned out when the bleeding man had reported to HelloMyNameIs Mary. He didn’t want to know what had happened. He wondered, though, why hospitals were so white when blood was so red.

He doesn’t look at the floor. Neither do the other three occupants of the room.

“Mr. Jones?” Terrence looks down from the skirting around the ceiling to the doctor, in his white coat and white gloves. He felt a stab of irritation at yet more of the whiteness, longing for the blue or green of scrubs. He’d even take them stained with blood. “You can see him now.”

Terrence gets to his feet and follows after the doctor, not looking at the floor, trails of red like spiderwebs in early morning dew across the otherwise clean linoleum. They pass a hurrying nurse with a mop and bucket, as they walk through the winding white corridors, the doctor informing him of this and that, and Terrence listening halfheartedly. He doesn’t want to know what happened.

He does want everything to go away, for everything to be alright again.

But you don’t always get what you want.


Adam’s room, at least, is not all white. The walls are a shade more blue than pale, the curtains are green, and there’s a mahogany desk against one wall, with a vase of flowers in it. Adam looks up when Terrence enters, shoved into the room by one quick smile of the doctor in white and a hand movement, and he smiles his lopsided puppy dog smile.

Terrence’s knees give out the moment he gets to the chair by the bed, his chin dropping to his chest, and yes, the floor is still white.

“Terry, are you alright?” Adam sits up quickly, pushing himself up with only his right arm. The left is in a cast, much like his right leg, and both are as white as the floor. “Terry? Terrence!”

“Don’t shout, Adam.” Terrence mumbles. “Inside voice, remember? Inside voice.” His hands are shaking, and he clutches at Adam’s sheets like they’re all that floats in the middle of the ocean.

Adam’s face screws up in worry. He snatches up one of Terrence’s hands, prying the blanket away from it with a tricky wriggling of fingers, and holding the curled and shaking hand to his cheek. “Terrence—”

“I was so worried, Adam,” Terrence mumbles, his voice quiet. “So scared. So, so scared...” He glances up and away from the screaming white floor to meet Adam’s eyes. “You’re all I have left, and I thought I’d lost you.”

“Hey, buddy, you’ve got more than me.”

“Like what?”

“Bella, for one thing.”

Terrence looks down again, shaking his head. “Girlfriends come and go. Adams are forever.”

Adam laughs, another puppy dog smile on his face, and shakes his head as well. “Terrence Michael Anton Jones, you really are a piece of work.” Terrence doesn’t reply, and it takes Adam a moment to notice his shoulders shaking gently. Accordingly, his jaw drops a little, because Terrence is crying. Terrence is crying. “Shh,” He soothes, tightening his grip on his friend’s hand. “Shh, Terry. I’m not going anywhere, alright?”

Terrence Jones, nineteen years old and sitting by the hospital bedside of his best friend, lets out a shaky sigh and nods, choking his acknowledgment around the tears. “Alright.”

Adam Kane, nineteen years old and sitting in a hospital bed with two broken bones and a usually stoic friend, smiles and squeezes the hand he holds tighter. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere.”
Sign up to rate and review this story