The girl gazed sombrely from where she was lying on her narrow, uncomfortable bed, noticing-and despising- the white walls.
Ugly colour, she thought. She would've preferred them if they were purple.
The white fluorescent lights seemed to poke holes in the back of her eyes, burdening her with the most piercing headache she had ever experienced.
Little girls should know nothing of such pain.
The walls joined the white doctor's uniforms, the white walls, white floors and ceilings, white drapes and the white sheets which cocooned her, effectively trapping her in her hospital room.
She hated white.
It's purity was marred too easily: by food, or vomit and other unmentionable stains. By smudges of dirt and urine and blood, so much blood. Blood that was red and slick, blood that was drawn from pain and composed of life, blood that no matter how hard you tried, was unable to be washed away.
The melancholy in the hospital was palpable, and bleak-faced people drifted aimlessly through the meandering wards. Many sat waiting outside in parked cars, solitary amongst a vast sea of insignificant people. More often than not, tears staining their faces, salty water feeling like acid which felt the need to escape on a rampaging warpath following the death of a loved one. They were unable to start the car and leave. Because while they were still in the car park, none of it was real- it only became reality when they left. When they knew there was no need to return. Silence and death lurked at every turn.
And, amidst it all, she lay there, too weak to move, her extensive medical treatments and her illness both draining the life from her fragile little body. She drifted in and out of consciousness towards the end- waves of oblivion sweeping over and drowning her when she least expected it- and began to grow increasingly weak.
One morning she woke briefly, glimpsed tears on a familiar face and wondered what had made her mother cry. Her hazy vision became blurred and unfocused before she could read any further into it and she fell asleep again... forever this time. Off to dance with the fairies.
She would not have read anything into it, anyway. Little girls didn't question sadness.
They knew little about such pain.
(A FEW MONTHS LATER)
The day was dark and melancholy buzzed in the air, a shadowy entity which absorbed the souls of the damaged people it surrounded. The great clouds overhead howled like wolves, anguished and seemingly anxious to drop the burdensome weight of the rain they held.
The little girl hadn't liked storms- she had preferred sunny days. She always had told people that the fairies couldn't come out in rain- because they'd drown!
She had loved fairies.
The man at the head of the crowd of huddled people- which was more like a single mass tears and unspoken words- spoke of Heaven and Bread, but the woman heard nothing. Words became cruel torture, condolences blurring into a montage of guilt and hopelessness. They were sorry, so very sorry, sorry for her loss. Sorry would not resurrect the dead. She remembered the hospital, watching her little girl slip away. The walls had been so white then... everything was white there.
This day was dark: black clothing, black skies, and the black coffin, slowly being lowered into the black, cavernous abyss in the earth. It seemed to have no end, an infinite pit of despair, taking the woman's little girl and turning her into a part of that hole. She was no longer one of the living, so the coffin was the true parting of the earth. People associated coffins with death. The woman wanted to scream, scream until the air was sucked from her lungs, until she joined her daughter in death but knew that she shouldn't, so she didn't. Young mothers should know nothing of such pain.
She just stood there and hoped that Heaven- the place where the girl was headed- wouldn't be white.
Her little girl had hated white.
But she also hated black, too. So the woman merely hoped she would be happy instead, in a purple heaven, finally strong and healthy enough to play with the other children, waiting until the woman grew old and withered.
Awaiting the day that they could be reunited once more.
Together, dancing with the fairies tirelessly in a place where time and age didn't matter.
A place where life's creater was, witnessing it all with a watchful, but not self-satisfied expression, proud and adored on His (or her) purple throne.
Author Notes: Sad. I just depressed myself. Must. Look. at. A PUPPY! Phew, safe!