The Hospital

[Pink!]

"That our love can overcome this, through some miracle.
If I have a faith, it's this, and it offers me little solace from this never-ending depression.
For despite my desire to take every inch of pain and make it my own...
No amount of compassion will make it possible."

Hospitals, inevitably, are always a sickeningly pure shade of white, at odds with the grim battles that take place inside them, every day. It's almost as if the paint will somehow enhance the patient's chances, yet if it is, it's a superstition that nobody places faith in. Medicine. Science. These things I understand, but not the salvation awaiting those who live their lives in service to a non-existent God. I'll never understand the misplaced wish that the shade of paint on the walls will lessen a man's suffering, not the belief that everything in our lives is set in stone.

I can still remember when he had the strength to carry me in his arms, over the threshold of our house. The day we got married is tenderly blurred around the edges, but the fondest memory is not his tender kiss on the altar of a church, but the moment I spent in his arms, savoring his scent until it wrapped around me. My hands clinging onto the blazer of his tuxedo, and the moment we giggled, lightly stepping over the doorstep, and inside to our future home, alone, with nobody else in the world.

Words never seem to hold the same, simple meaning they did at that moment, separated from the world with infinite futures spread before us. A perfect second, forever treasured.

"I love you," I murmur, cradling my face against his shoulder, desperate to remember this moment forever. His scent, the taste of cologne in the air, my hair whirling as he twirled me in his arms, spinning me through the world.

"I love you too."

It's hard to understand what led to this moment, locked in a white room while the hours I can spend with him slowly tick down. I don't know what I'll do when the nurses finally ask me to go home - or, as is more likely, make me leave. There's nowhere to go. Not any more. I accepted what meager offerings we got for the house, the money going towards the mounting debt required to keep him in care. Any attachment to the building is gone, however. It's an empty shell, a reliquary to painful memories that I can no longer bear to touch. Yet the detachment I felt upon selling our house does not change the vital fact that I am presently without a place to reside. My parents refuse to have anything to do with me; his are in prison. Any friends we may have once shared are long gone, abandoning us before they break under the daily strain of watching a man's body slowly die.

We're alone.

It's all I can do not to break down as I grip his hand, pressing it against my face, and my heart cries out his skeletal fingers entwine with my own. Desperately, I press it against my cheek, as if by pouring our my love into him, in some, weak way, it'll stave off the corruption burning up his body. That our love can overcome this, through some miracle. If I have a faith, it's this, and it offers me little solace from this never-ending depression. For despite my desire to take every inch of pain and make it my own, no amount of compassion will make it possible.

Weakly, he lets out a groan, any words straining to force themselves through his dry throat, and I reach for a small bowl of water, gently lifting it to his lips. The groans eventually subside, until the only sound in the room is the electronic blip of his heart mixed with the sound of water lapping on a stainless steel bowl. I wonder, briefly, what causes such grief to happen. Was it my greed? The desire for greater things turning him to a life of desperation, turning him to this?

The cancer showed itself with haste, as if eager to showcase its slow, inexorable destruction of my beloved's body. He, of course, knew it would eventually come; that his gamble in the depths of man's own hell would take back what little he gained. One cannot dance with the devil without burns, he would laugh, at first, before the pain in speaking was too great, his throat now swollen with the mishapen tumors. For once, I would forsake my own life in the hopes I could hear his glorious voice once more, free of the agony that grips his body with every syllable.

Again, I intertwine my fingers with his, lowering the bowl from his lips. By now, they are almost white, blending in with the cursed color scheme of this wretched hospital. If there is a hell, then surely this is my purgatory, lost in the blending white as I wait for someone to slowly die. Perhaps it is better to let him go. To forsake what little joy there is in his continued existence, and to give him the benefit of death. The thought is unpleasant, jarring against my raw emotion, and I squeeze his hand in mine to stave off the feeling.

It takes me a moment to realize he's speaking, the words barely escaping his lips.

They're slurred and weak as it falls out of his mouth, almost pooling on the ground in it's exhaustion. Briefly, I recall a time when his booming voice would echo throughout the streets, before the memory grows too painful, and I force myself to return to the present moment; to the time and place we presently dwell in. To the words that trail from his lips.

"Don't cry, Zhenya." Gently, his hand reaches up to the side of my face, his skeletal fingers reaching out to stroke a small tear from my eyes; yet I was not even aware of my sobs until that contact. Weakly, I press his hand to my face, blonde hair swaying in the breeze, an almost sickening reminder of the bygone times he would use these hands to swing me through the sky. As I take a gasping breath, determined not to violate his request, he forces himself to speak again. "I love you, too."

How can we content to exist in a world of such abject misery, where an act of love can result in the one you adore slowly being ripped from your grip? It's more than I can bear to tolerate, day in, day out. For the rest of the day, we dwell in silence, his hand clasped in mine, as I rock, endlessly, back and forth in a chair, wondering which of us requires the support our love can provide.

The streets had fallen into disrepair when the laboratories were shut down, without explanation, without word of the explosion that had rocked the world in the distance. It had been a long time since then. At first, some hoped that they would reopen within a month, that their jobs would return, but as time continued its slow, steady march, rumors began to quietly spread. That the area of radiation was a construction of the military; that the laboratory was forever lost, home to the trapped spirits of those who died that night.

Nights would pass in abject silence, as slowly, all our utilities were shut down, the red bills used as tinder for the fireplace so that we had some form of light. And yet, in a way, I was content with our dwindling supply of money, with the abject poverty we lived in. There was a man in front of me, strong, fierce, and determined to correct the wrong that had been set, and I loved him.

It is almost ironic, the way love can differ between people. Even as I curled up next to him for warmth, at night, listening to the slumbering man who cradled me in his arms, he silently fumed that this was the lifestyle he would provide for his beloved. A life where the only food was that begged from a homeless shelter, and the only light from candles and lanterns.

I begged him not to do it, told him I was content as long as he was beside me.

He left while I slept.

It's late in the night when I awake once more, the hospital silent except for the occasional, strangled cough of a patient, the sound of a nurse patrolling the corridors. The bed next to me is silent, save for Dimitiri's strangled breathing, and with a sigh, I glance at the bill left on the bed for me to sign. Already, the money from the house is gone, the debt once more beginning to mount as I strain to ensure he recieves care; I've endured too much to abandon the hope he can recover.

There are two suitcases filled with the items I recovered from the house, scavenging through the attics to determine the most valuable creations; the most treasured memories. And one small package, concealed in a drawer, gave me a moment of silent reflection. A hope.

I'm careful not to wake him as I open up the briefcase, placing aside old heirlooms and golden candlesticks, reaching for the small piece of clothing I placed on the bottom, aware of the reverence placed upon it. Silently, I let my fingers play over the white anorak, before gently peeling it back, feeling the slightly heavier weight around it. There's something inside; a small pistol. My hands reverently touch the engraving on the side of the weapon, the magazines still inside. "Devil." Wrapped around it is a small amount of rubles, a small computer concealed in the middle of the soft package. And when I touch it, a small message appears on its screen, simply awaiting the touch of someone to complete its purpose.

==> Nobody's game to run with me, anymore.
==> I guess the pain's too much, it's getting in the way, and I don't feel good, at all.
==> Haven't felt good for a long, long time.
==> Someone suggested I check out for a while, get some rest and treatment.
==> I hate to do it, but I honestly can't labor in the Zone for another day, without any money.
==> I've sold what gear I had to get by for the time I'm out, but I kept some small items so I can return, later.
==> To start again.
==>
==> Forgive me, Zhenya. I did everything for you.

Occasionally, I would ask myself: after all that Dimitiri has done for my well-being, how can I struggle to save him now?

That question, I feel, as I let myself slip from the door, watching his chest rise and fall, has finally been answered.

<a href="http://www.youtube.com/v/al21Vtlsg4A&amp;autoplay=1" target="_blank" class="new_win">http://www.youtube.com/v/al21Vtlsg4A&amp;autoplay=1</a>

[lolKieck]

I am presently undertaking this piece of writing in the hopes that it will convince the administrations to allow this female character into the depths of roleplay she can explore.

http://www.forums.hypergamer.net/pk-appeals/specailfemalenon-ukrainerussian-char-applications/
You should apply for a female character here.
And before you'll ask why apply, it is because there were a lot of tomboys on the servers.

[Paintcheck]

No it wasn't "tomboys" it was the amount of prepubescent guys making ridiculous female characters that made no sense at all and were into weird sexual deviancy and it was a mess. Since you are female irl and can actually form coherent sentences I'm sure you won't have a problem with it.

[Tom]

Im okay with Tomboys just not "LOL I Iz XENA WARRIOR STALKER LESBIAN!"

And why the hell was Paint banned?

[Pink!]

I will soon be continuing this piece of writing, and am hopeful the character will be accepted after Tom and killabreu's approval and recommendation.

[Pink!]

The writing is finished.

I fear I may have been hasty towards the end, but I was ill at ease in bringing it to some form of resolution.

[Rook]

This is amazing, I was on the verge of crying, the one "sob story" in the Zone that generally makes me feel sorry for someone

[Pink!]

I am absolutely overjoyed you feel that way!

I was intending to combine as much emotion as possible into the story, so I am very, very glad.

[eroticduck]

Pure inspiration. I love my fellow story-writers <3.

[Pink!]

I feel bad for bumping this, but I was reading it again, and thought to myself...

"This is one of the best things I have ever written."

[Ragolution]

'spretty good.
There was a few touches of unneeded word-reuse, which is just a peeve of mine.
Rather than a story-ruiner.
A few missing possessive apostrophes,
But otherwise it was a really good story.
I don't like your character's name! Hahah.

My only gripe was the cancer cliche. Which was, again, a minor gripe.

Overall: Good

[Pink!]

I tried to explore cancer in a different concept, but you are right, I struggled to pull it off. I like to think, however, that I performed it in a way that was not a cliche - something performed again and again. Maybe.

One thing I am surprised by is that you said there were some incorrect possessive forms, however. My grammar is, typically, impeccable, and I do not see any.

Oh, and word reuse is one habit I struggle, daily, to break. Pauses and sighing are two words that I use far two frequently.

Thank you, however, Rag! I do appreciate the review and criticism, it means a great deal.

[Ragolution]

I tried to explore cancer in a different concept, but you are right, I struggled to pull it off. I like to think, however, that I performed it in a way that was not a cliche - something performed again and again. Maybe.

One thing I am surprised by is that you said there were some incorrect possessive forms, however. My grammar is, typically, impeccable, and I do not see any.

Oh, and word reuse is one habit I struggle, daily, to break. Pauses and sighing are two words that I use far two frequently.

Thank you, however, Rag! I do appreciate the review and criticism, it means a great deal.

The cancer thing wasn't as big as you make it.
It's a popular cliché, but you did well to try to make it something more... livid, I guess.
Probably a better adjective, somewhere.

The possessiveness thing was like two missing apostrophe-s es

Regardless, it didn't detract from it, and I barely noticed it.
And worse, I couldn't find them when I went back to look.