White lights. White halls. Empty as far as you're concerned. Actually busy, people filtering in and by, some running, rushing, others going slow, supporting others. But what they do doesn't matter. There's nothing here, nothing but silence, emptiness, waiting, every sound muffled and muted. Nothing gets in. Nothing gets out. Only the floor, scuffed linoleum, between your feet, shoes filthy, wet with slush and dirt.
Turn the phone over and over in your hands. The screen's dark. There's water on it. A long scratch on the battery case. Fingerprints on the plastic front of the screen. An edge of red on one side, starting to dry, to crack. But keep turning. Keep turning it. Otherwise the blood in every line of your fingers shows up bright and awful against the skin, the white linoleum.
A voice. A name. Filtering through the walls built up because they're so familiar. One's close, the other's yours. You look up. Horror-stricken, faces drawn, your parents. Moving down the hall, blue scrubs trailing behind. Questions - sounds, starting to break down the soft muffling, letting the world back in, letting it drag you kicking and screaming into reality, a place you don't want to be, never want to be, never want to go near ever again.
You start to stutter out an explanation. Why the lights are buzzing. Why you're sitting here with blood on your hands. Why she isn't here with you. Why there's a hole in the knee of your jeans. Why there was a call, voices sympathetic but distant. Why you're here, you're all here, with a white coat coming closer and wearing an expression you can't - don't - won't accept.
I'm sorry, but --
You don't listen. Can't. Won't. The words get in anyway. She's dead and you hear that. You hear the real words hidden in the softened blow and your phone drops from your fingers and you can't. Keep it together. You have to. Have to try, have to try and manage it for your mother and the way she's holding onto you like you're all she has left (you're all she has left), for your father and the way he's asking what and why and how (you know what and why and how). You were there, you saw it, you heard it, you were there and you were with her and one second she was there and the next she wasn't and you couldn't save her even though you were right there you
did
nothing
The emptiness hollows you out and drops the realization in the pit of your stomach and you know, you know, it'll always be your fault.