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❛ give me time ❜
THREE WEEKS HAVE PASSED AND RORY STILL has not left the confines of her room. No visitors have come to see her, either—not even her own family. She hasn't seen anyone yet, well, besides the doctor who comes in every morning to deliever her breakfast. Monday through to Thursday, it's soggy oatmeal with a glass of cloudy apple juice. Fridays and Saturdays; burnt toast with apricot jam. Sunday's meal consists of whatever is left in the fridge, she guessed. One week, it was a cut up orange, dry crackers and hummos paired with a pint of milk (which did not taste good together). The next week was leftover roast beef from the night before and celery sticks. The doctor said it was too keep up her iron indulgence, however, she highly doubted that considering he then proceeded to feed her Oreos, watered down ginger-beer cordial and thick mash potato later that day.
Rory's door remains closed. Has been closed ever since she awoke 21 days ago. The only time it opens, the only time she gets a peak at what's beyond the confines of her prison, is when the doctor comes in to check on her.
There's no clock in her room but he comes in every morning at the exact time as the day before. Every day, when the sun shines through the small window and drowns where she lay in sunlight, blinding her temporarily, the door creaks open. That is when the doctor steps through. How convenient.
Apparently, she's 'contagious.' That the pounding headaches she suffers are because of some disease that she's contracted. He won't tell her what disease it precisely is; says that him and his collegues are still yet to clarify it. But, no, she shouldn't be worried because 'everything is under control.' She knows he's lying. Rory isn't stupid.
Three weeks of non-stop sleep, limited eating and lack of any form of entertainment. How hard would it be to get a television in here? Some form of interaction with people other than the doctor. Even a radio would suffice. She doesn't complain about the food though—it comes in regularly enough. It just has her running to the bathroom every hour, hurling it back up into the toilet bowl. Due to no entertainment whatsoever, Rory is forced to spend her day sleeping and staring at the blank ceiling. When she can't physically sleep anymore, when her eyes beg to stay open and her bed becomes as hard as stone, she counts the cracks on her walls. Or bites the remainder of the calluses off her fingers, wishing the the comfort of her Yamaha in her hands once more. Often, Rory imagines herself outside, bathing in the sunlight with her sister. A dangerous game to play but what else was she meant to do?
It's been three weeks of the same damn thing over and over and over and over.
Every morning, after the doctor gives Rory her food, he would take out his clip board, click his pen three times and ask her the same four questions:
