I strain my eyes to look up, though the light aches my sight, I am alert. My heart is racing against my chest. Deep short breaths, in and out. Please… just please be alive. He looks down with a non emotional face. This can’t be good. He looks to his clipboard and pauses. I try to control the fluid in my eyes, but the silence of unknown is blurring my vision. He takes the clipboard from under his arm, placing it on the floor as he slides down beside me, mirroring my posture; Knees bent, arms wrapped tightly around, shutting reality out, and secluding to a smaller world. He sighs, and begins.

I wish it were simple. I wish this was a shooting of an upcoming film and that a director was standing by to call “Cut.” realising it was a mistake to tell such a story, but it’s all as I say; just a wish.

He looks at me, waiting for a response, but somehow knows there won’t be one. I can’t look him in the eyes…her eyes were the last I saw. I want to keep the memory of her eyes in my mind. Her beautiful brown eyes, that sparkled even when there was no light. They were the keys to anyone’s soul. Whenever she was around, she paid attention to everything behind the physicality. She focused on the soul, rather than the being. “You are entitled to see her.” I focus on his shoes. The blackness glares at me. I actually feel sorry for this man. His job is a very dependant job. It’s up to him to pass the message on if someone lives or dies. Whether it’s to his colleagues, or to a friend, relations, acquaintances of the being that depends on his skills to save them. He is still waiting for my response. A moment passes.

I get up, and so does he. He leads the way. I’m walking down this corridor, and everything is clinical and controlled. Nothing is free. The sound is controlled, bleeps after bleeps after bleeps. The wheeling of a well used wheelchair rolls past me. The air is controlled. Each particle is mixed with bacteria and hygiene. Doors that lead to smaller rooms with one bed, fill the walkway. Some are open, some are closed. I can’t hear anything but my own thoughts. Life is happening, no…reality is happening, life is asleep. My life is asleep.

He stops by the door, and holds out an open hand, allowing me to visit her on my own. I still can’t look at him. I try to open my mouth, but I sense my voice is already broken. He holds the open hand up, and squeezes my arm reassuringly. “Save your words for her. She is able to hear.” He leaves and I am left alone outside of the door. I close my eyes and I see her smiling. I picture her sitting in her baby blue dress, a daisy chain in her soft curly hair, bouncing against the wind. I reach for the handle and pray.

Resting. I see her chest slowly moving. Her eyes are closed. Her nose and mouth are covered by plastic, conjoining to a tube. The room is quiet. My footsteps are weary, but I feel her magnetic pull guiding me towards her. As I reach the side of her bed, I see her hand. Her small, cold, fragile hand, painted with pale yellow nail varnish. They’re still her hands. This is still her. This is still my best friend.

My fingers lift her hand and place it to rest in mine. I can’t control the water works, and I know she wouldn’t want me to. I let the tears fall. “Daisy” I choked before I even begin. I shake my head with irritation at myself.

Come on.

Be strong.
Be strong for her.

I begin again. “Daisy… I am so grateful to have a friend like you…I’m trying to think and think. I don’t know how to help by just talking..because just talking…I don’t if it’ll help.” Her eyes remain closed, and her breathing rhythmic. I look at her, and I cry more. I cry and cry. The following words come out subconsciously. “You are so special and you don’t deserve this. You have so much value, and you shine. Like your happiness and energy spreads like the sun” She is alive. I continue to pour my love out.