He can't move, staring through the glass and almost not noticing the almost stinging smell of antiseptic that permeates the hospital, just like every other hospital he's ever been in. He can't stand seeing her like this, being unable to do anything about it. He can't reach out to press the buzzer that would let a nurse know he's there, so they can come unlock the door and let him in.
So he just stands outside the door and stares through the glass.
She's wearing what looks like paper scrubs, dark blue, and socks with tread on the bottom so she doesn't slip on the linoleum floor. Not that she's walking around now - now she's just sitting in a chair, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms - almost entirely white from the bandages wrapped around the stitches they had to put in to keep her alive - draped gingerly around them.
A nurse walks up to her with a tray, handing her a little sample cup and a cup of water. Pills. She takes them, her movements a little too slow, her eyes far too dull. She shouldn't be locked up like this, but then again she shouldn't have tried to leave them the way they did.
He knows he should go in, talk to her, let her know she's not alone and that he's there for her, that he loves her, but he can't make himself do it. Because there's no way he can explain to her why the person she would want to see isn't coming, why he's the only one visiting. He can't bring himself to be the one to break that news.
A nurse sees him through the glass and starts towards the door, but he shakes his head and steps back. He glances at her one more time, looking so young and lost and alone, and his heart breaks even more for her, and he has the most overwhelming urge to go in, to hug her, to tell her he loves her and that it's going to be alright.
But he doesn't. So Mark just turns from the door and walks away.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
Through the Glass, Rent, April, watching, G
Date: 2007-03-28 08:49 pm (UTC)He can't move, staring through the glass and almost not noticing the almost stinging smell of antiseptic that permeates the hospital, just like every other hospital he's ever been in. He can't stand seeing her like this, being unable to do anything about it. He can't reach out to press the buzzer that would let a nurse know he's there, so they can come unlock the door and let him in.
So he just stands outside the door and stares through the glass.
She's wearing what looks like paper scrubs, dark blue, and socks with tread on the bottom so she doesn't slip on the linoleum floor. Not that she's walking around now - now she's just sitting in a chair, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms - almost entirely white from the bandages wrapped around the stitches they had to put in to keep her alive - draped gingerly around them.
A nurse walks up to her with a tray, handing her a little sample cup and a cup of water. Pills. She takes them, her movements a little too slow, her eyes far too dull. She shouldn't be locked up like this, but then again she shouldn't have tried to leave them the way they did.
He knows he should go in, talk to her, let her know she's not alone and that he's there for her, that he loves her, but he can't make himself do it. Because there's no way he can explain to her why the person she would want to see isn't coming, why he's the only one visiting. He can't bring himself to be the one to break that news.
A nurse sees him through the glass and starts towards the door, but he shakes his head and steps back. He glances at her one more time, looking so young and lost and alone, and his heart breaks even more for her, and he has the most overwhelming urge to go in, to hug her, to tell her he loves her and that it's going to be alright.
But he doesn't. So Mark just turns from the door and walks away.