Dahlia sat out in the courtyard. Alone. Other than the occasional grieving parent, no one ever disturbed her out here, and that was fine. Of course, loneliness would eventually lead to boredom, and when she got bored or was left solitary for too long, she tended to think too much.
Living at the convenience of her family, she would never grow up and get married, or live any career dreams that she was still in the process of sorting out. That was lost, so now she'd be around just long enough for people to come say goodbye. All she could do was count down the days, and counting down the days wasn't a life worth living. Her own father couldn't look at her anymore-and casting a glance toward her reflection in the tinted windows, she had to admit to herself that she knew exactly why. Dahlia dry-heaved when she saw what she had been so expertly avoiding.
Lips thin and broken in the middle, their lifeless pale color contrasted with the black holes around her eyes. Lashes and eyebrows were long gone. Though she retained some hair on her scalp, it was flat and limp-nothing like the bouncy curls that her friends had loved poking at to see the little quivers that would rush over her entire head. She had a wispy figure, though maybe without the elegance that someone of her stature should possess, and her elbows and ribs jutted out in a way that almost appeared broken at first glimpse.
Averting her eyes was as painful as looking, and she shook her dry brown hair in front of her face to hide it from anyone else. Balling up as tight as possible and scraping her back against the tree, Dahlia allowed herself to cry.
She remembered back when she was beautiful, not gaunt and grossly pale. Now when she saw her assigned nurse bustling around, her skin wobbling a bouncing under her clothes, Dahlia prayed she could wake up in the morning in the woman's dark skin and ringlet curls. But this was what dying looked like.
The sound of dead leaves crunching pierced the silence in an obnoxious way.
"Do you need help finding your mommy, sweetie?"
"No, asshole, I'm sevente-" She wiped her eyes and met his gaze. His eyes were like crystals, such a clear, crisp blue she almost missed his profuse apologies.
"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry. Really, I didn't know. You're just-small, and I didn't. Gosh... I'm really sorry."
"It's fine," Dahlia mumbled, not really listening. It was as if all the light filtering into the amber courtyard had gone from trying fruitlessly to grow the dead grass to making his eyes sparkle. He was like a movie star. "Wh-what do you want?"
"A break from the cancer ward." His face changed a bit.
Him? No. No way.
"What are you doing there?" Trying to be inconspicuous, she tugged down her sweatshirt sleeve, hoping he wouldn't notice the hospital band. Her hair became a sheild for her eyes, as if that would mask what she was really asking.
"Cleaning out my grandfather's room. He was here for a few months." His face changed further, and his fingertips began to dance with loose tendrils of his straight, tar-colored hair.
I had a few months, a few months ago.
He began to babble about chemotherapy and Dahlia had to stop listening. She knew enough.
The curtilage began to look lighter, like the clouds were lifting-though they still warped overhead, brewing another horrible storm. She could stare into the purple sky forever.
"Probably time for snow."
"Mm."
"Why are you here?"
His question was so abrupt, it took a little too long for her to stumble awkwardly into an answer.
"Same as you-cleaning." He still seemed clueless, but she heard the edge in her own voice. Her skin was whispering the truth.
