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That's the problem with all these fucking flowers.
They're fake.
An artificial, commonplace message of 'get well soon' entangled with 'sorry for your loss.' They're pretty to look at, sure. But there's no scent to admire. And the petals are coarse to touch, not satin-smooth. The colors are bright and bring a pop to the depressing and clinical shades that decorate a hospital room, but the sheer amount of them piled at the foot of the damn bed is causing an unflattering clash. The nurses spent the first two days bringing in bouquet after bouquet, tiny cards as the only indication an actual person sent them. Most of the names were hardly recognizable. Another thing, there's no appropriate time to throw them away. They don't die like real love tends to, whether by some interference from fate or simply the natural hands of death itself.
But they're nice to look at, aren't they? Not to hold, but to have. Shouldn't that be enough for her to express some kind of appreciation?
Rory Hicks has been confined to this goddamn hospital bed for what feels like for-fucking-ever. The visitor's chair by her bedside has been vacant, so the nurse started to use it as a stacking corner for some of those flowers. She stares at them, wondering if they're symbolic of her worthiness at all. Or simply... artifice..
They're everywhere. Rory can't go anywhere.
The flower flood is why the group is forced to stand around, dodging the floor like it's littered with landmines. They bear news instead of bouquets - Mindy is the one to break into a rant about how she missed it. Ghostface turned out to be Sam's boyfriend, Richie Kirsch (Rory had always thought he looked a little crusty) and... Amber Freeman. They even turned out to be dating. Fucking monsters.
Rory can hardly feel Sam's eyes on her as Rory sits silently in her bed, with no words to contribute to the conversation. For the first time in her life, she's an outlier. Mindy is still talking, and Rory hardly has to bite her lip to suppress the urge to tell her to shut the fuck up. It's... nothing. She feels nothing.
The group eventually started to leave. Sam places her hand on Rory's shoulder and offers it a half-hearted squeeze. Defeat is a uniting feeling among them all. Sam's fingertips slip away, and in the absence of the few touches familiar to her from a young age, Rory starts to feel everything.
"Mindy."
It's pathetic, the way her voice cracks. It shocks the girl in question, who's about to be last out of Rory's door. She jolts forward, tripping up on one of the floor-bouquets. "Oh my God, holy fuck I am so sorry-" Half-alive cobalt eyes follow Mindy as she crouches down, Chad judgementally eyeballing her from behind, but he obeys the unspoken dominance Rory exhibits easily over the room. It was an instruction for only Mindy to stay. And so, Chad grimaces and clicks the door shut. That whole time, Mindy has been scrambling to fix the snapped stem of one of the flowers.
"Are you crying...?" Mindy's eyes narrow on the bare-faced blonde. All she manages in response is a dismissive mutter.
