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The accident still haunted him, even now.
Screeching tires in front of him, but he still couldn't see the car.
He sat in the hospital bed, white sheets tucked around him.
The metal wailed as it tore apart. Sirens split the air, the lights stopping nearby.
Pillows cushioned his spine, thin ones. He'd been forced to ask for more.
Yelling fills the air. Everything blurs together in his mind, gray and hazy.
The room is so silent, leaving him with only his thoughts
Wailing of sirens is all he can hear now.
The bandages cut grooves into his skin, turning it an angry red.
The metal of the car is oddly twisted around him. He can barely move, and his head is bleeding. He can feel it.
He shakes his head as if to clear it but the memories won't go away.
Metal shrieks and is torn apart again, though this time it is to save a life, not to threaten it.
His fists clench in the pristine sheets, spreading wrinkles across their smoothness.
He turns his head and chokes on the pain. He can feel his life dripping down his face.
Everything is white here. There's no variation, except when his bandages are changed and his new scars stand out. Not that he can see them. Not anymore.
"Charlie?" A door opens, then clicks shut. He turns his head away. "Charlie, please."
He hasn't spoken since the accident, It's understandable that she is concerned. He focuses on the rough sheets under his fingers, now smoothing the wrinkles again. His hands are methodical and gentle, precise. Each wrinkle is tugged and tucked back into place. A hand touches his face and he starts, tensing. Gentle fingers brush the bandages. His hands clench again, briefly, wrinkling what he had just made smooth.
"Miranda. Please." Slowly, he pushes her hand away. He can feel his fingers beginning to tremble. He can no longer hold them steady. "Just tell me."
"They…the doctors….they tried all they could. They did everything they knew how."
"And?"
Silence.
He hated silence and hates it still. It's like the absence of color, a blank canvas. It is worth nothing, conveys nothing. But this silence is laden with words unsaid. He knows what she isn't saying and he loathes those words more than the pressure of quiet.
"You aren't angry?" The chair creaks as she shifts position. He can picture her, crossing her legs, trying to occupy a smaller space. The force of the news she bore would bow her thin shoulders.
She didn't understand. He was angry, yes, raging against a cruel world. His heart was filled with the pain and power of his fury. But it was cold as ice. The last times there had been bad news, he'd screamed, yelled, thrown things. The nurses had been forced to restrain him. He'd had fire. But fire was for the hopeful. And he had no hope.
He did not speak, but turned his head away. His ears caught a gentle sigh. The hospital mattress sank beneath the weight of a second person, and her warmth spread around him as her arms embraced him. She was soft, small, and he smelled her perfume- like cinnamon. It smelled like home. Finally, he sobbed. He cried, wept, in her arms, and finally offered up one last desperate plea.
"How can a painter paint without eyes?"
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