Knotted hair spilled from its tattered ponytail, locks of distant brown coiling in miscellaneous directions. The deep honey tone that once cascaded along the tips of my hair was now displaced with a shade that appeared to be forever paling, much like my skin, with the only remnant of a colour tracing to the heavy red hanging under my eyes. Protruding bones sculpted my face, crevices denting around my cheekbones and temple to highlight the linearity of my face. The blue that had previously choked my eyes had now been substituted by an unrecognisable grey, almost unperceivable against my toneless skin where a plentiful amount of scratches and scrapes littered my features. One scar in particular stood out to me, extending along my right temple in a distasteful crimson and for the first time since my awakening, I found myself grateful for not being able to remember the accident.
Following my gaze along and down my neck, I trickled my fingertips delicately across the skin, a fear that it may crumble beneath my touch seeping into the back of my mind. Releasing my hand, it flung limply against my hip, the skin strewn tightly around the bone in a desperate attempt to fill the void that had once been capacitated with a healthy layer of fat. My limbs, alike, were solemnly bone; my ribcage a non-insulated structure inefficiently sheltering my organs.
My gaze directed toward a small grazing that peaked from behind my gown clad body, my hand instinctively reaching up to tug against the fabric. It revealed a lengthy gash puncturing my skin from one end of my rib cage to the other. Any attempts at concealing the wound had proved futile, with few stitches still remaining intact or visible. Little pain emitted from the area, though the agony I felt from the sight was enough for me to rapidly slam the cloth back over the disfigurement.
Upon flinging my vision away from sickening image, I paused noticing a speck of black ink on the skin on my hand. My feet padded steadily along the flooring, stepping closer toward the mirror, to distinguish the swirls of ink that wove together to paint an obscured image. I raised my hand slightly higher, uncoiling the skin along the side of my hand to reveal a scribbling of letters in a language foreign to my mind. The illustration was somewhat familiar, though my mind could obtain nothing surrounding its history or background, never mind its translation.
I stood in wonder, staring hopelessly at the seemingly meaningless shape as a knock pounded against the door adjacent to me. "Adelaide, are you okay in there?"
"Yeah, sorry, I'll be out in a minute," I rambled in reply, leaning over toward the skin to collect a small pool of water in my palms before splashing it over my face in a hurry to recollect myself.
My feet carried my body unevenly toward the door, my hand flying to grasp the wall repeatedly for extra support as my legs stumbled due the physical exertion that they had been without for months. However, my feet had scarcely reached within a metre of the door before my mind was forcing my body to go against its original wishes to retreat to the safety of my room.
In that moment, it wasn't clear what exactly had sparked my irrational decision to flee the room from the alternate door, but one thing I was certain of as my feet helplessly carried me away was that I needed a chance to breathe, away from the compulsive manners of my mother and her worry for my health.
The white walls around me appeared to cave in on my desperation, taunting me as they morphed into a maze of walkways. Each turn left me fumbling under the puzzled gaze of nurses, the sight of a girl who had been in a coma six months now fleeing every concerned gesture she was given.
My haste continued for merely minutes, my feet coming to an abrupt stop after concluding that hobbling through a hospital would not help my wounds in any sense, so I resorted to heading for the staircase with the thought of slumping onto the steps appealing to my tiresome being.
The muscles within my palms pushed gently against the steel doors, my body staggering through them before it was brought to a steady standstill. The seat that my legs had longed for was presently occupied- blocking the stairway for anyone who may wish to ascend the steps.
Strands of chestnut hair matted slightly over his forehead, leaving few to carve into a dishevelled quiff. His stance was stiff as he sat with his head dropped toward his chest, his eyes focused solemnly on his toying fingers that rested on top of his jean-clad thighs. At this sight, I concluded that my presence hadn't been noted, but not a beat later, his youthful tone rang out.
"Tired of the sympathetic looks and words?" he said, brining his green eyes up to greet mine as he shifted aside. His head motioned to the space aside him, leaving me no choice but to settle on the concrete before he reverted his attention back to his palms.
"You know the kind?" I replied, taking a moment to clear my throat.
"All too well. Not the only thing you pick up on in this place either."
"No?"
"No," he confirmed with ease. "The coffee's rank."
"I'd have called that before buying one. I'm afraid hospitals have a reputation for it."
"Oh I know that," he smiled oddly, shifting his gaze to the tattered cup on the floor beside him. "But sometimes you need a stale coffee to give you something else to complain about, relieves you from having to hear the same one in a loop all of the time."
"Same reason you're consoling yourself in a cold staircase I presume?" I commented, not certain that I could relate to what he had been implying.
"If I was a smoker, I suppose I'd be outside now, but instead I've had to resort to this grubby hideout. I can't stand the fumes."
"You visiting?"
He nodded, "I suppose your attire is a bit of a giveaway for your circumstance. Girl on the run in a hospital gown only points to one thing."
"Hm?"
"Psychiatric ward," he said playfully.
"Feels that way sometimes," I mumbled, more so to myself than the boy aside me but he picked up on it nevertheless.
"It's only because they wouldn't understand, your parents I mean. No-one could comprehend what losing every sense of yourself feels like."
My eyes were drawn instantly to his countenance as the words fell from his lips, his apparent knowledge of my circumstances resulting in my face scrunching up in confusion, though his expression had become impassive.
"Go back to your room Adelaide," he sighed. "Your dad will be on my back if he finds out I've been sat with you, all while he has his entire team searching the building for you."
"You're one of his?"
"He likes to think so," he chimed, only to have his voice silenced at the notion of someone else entering the staircase. His gaze, as did mine, averted to Blake, one of my father's men as he watched our interaction with uncertainty.
"Blake," the boy aside me continued. "Sit with Adelaide a while will you will you? I'm presuming she needs to clear her head a little." He paused for a moment, appearing to phrase his statement in a manner of question. I nodded quickly, suddenly feeling discomfort at the odd intimidation that radiated from beside me. "In the meantime I need to find out how the hell the Boss let this one slip past him."
"Was too concerned about getting an early discharge I think," Blake commented, moving to take the young man's place as he raised himself to his feet.
"I'll see you in a couple of weeks Adelaide," he informed placidly as he advanced toward the door.
"You will?"
"Hm. You didn't think you'd be going to New York alone did you?" His body then stopped for a moment, not a metre from the door, from where he titled his shoulders to cast his eyes back over to me. "And just to avoid you accumulating an assumption about me from everyone other than myself before we go, I suppose I should introduce myself. Then again, I don't particularly have a positive reputation to be keeping up with."
"Cut the crap Luke, tell her who you are," Blake requested, shooting the young man a discrete smile.
"Looks like you just did that for me," he replied slowly. "And I think the word they use is a safeguard, Adelaide."
