February 6, 2011
South Evergreen Hospital

I don’t know how it happened, I don’t remember getting in a car or checking in at any front desk or even walking down the endless white walls, but somehow I find myself sitting in one of the rooms at the end. The place was so sterile and stiff that it almost made me sick. The whole room was a white so bright it hurt to look at, yet somehow there was a dark, depressing color to it as well. The light was bright and florescent; the floor was cold and lifeless, and the only smear of color that could be found was the Mrs. Hampton’s purple handbag. Even Olivia’s face, which was once so vivid and full of life, was grey and pale, as if her warm, pink skin was buried under layers of paper.

I didn’t bother trying to talk to her, I know she couldn’t respond, but her parents could and I could bet what they’d say wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I knew they blamed me. I knew that Mr. Hampton probably wanted to rip me to shreds and feed me to his dog; I knew his wife would love to watch me torn away from her daughter. But that wouldn’t make me stand away and let them close in around Olivia as I stood by and watched from afar.

Her hand in mine was cold and smooth, like marble of glass and she felt even more fragile than any mineral. I felt that if I simply breathed on her she would shatter apart and break into millions of tiny pieces of ash. She would float away on the wind, and then there would really be nothing to stand between her father and my life.

Her hair fanned out from her face as if she were submerged in water. Her eyes were red with heavy, dark circles under her eyes. They were so deeply bruised looking I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had told me she was a painted waxwork. Yet despite it’s deep coloring it still seemed grey and far away; a faded piece of cloth.
It was like the end of a song. A slow, peaceful one with a sad, lilting voice. The beginning is just a piano—maybe a guitar—going alone for several seconds. Then the drumbeat comes, then the voice and underlying melodies that can’t be distinguished on their own. It went on like that for a while, with a harmony that made your heart feel it was bound to break open. Then slowly the melodies were gone, without your even noticing. The only trace of the voice was one note, quietly fading in the background. Then the drumbeat, the lifeline, seems to halt, each beat quieter than the last, and you know it’s going, but you know you can’t do anything about it, even if you tried. And when the heartbeat is gone, all there is left is the body of the piano’s simply tune, singing the song to sleep.

Olivia took one shattering breath, and before I knew it, even though the Hampton’s were behind me, even though I knew Olivia couldn’t respond in any way—not even a smile—and I doubted that she could even hear me, I drew in breath. I clutched her hand, feeling for any ounce of force back from her. I let the tears come. And as Olivia’s drum was pounding to a stop, I sang.