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|Translations (standard:science fiction, 1401 words)|
|Author: Jorj||Added: Jan 24 2003||Views/Reads: 1804/1073||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|She does not understand what you say...only what you feel...|
TRANSLATIONS The cell was dark and cold, though, at first glance, it didn't seem as such. Bright lights bounded through the room, bouncing off of mirrors and windows everywhere. The floor was richly carpeted, obviously the most expensive silk for the most sensitive of toes. Landscape after portrait after still life decorated otherwise unremarkable walls surrounding a beautiful canopy bed. The look of such wealth in one room should have belonged to a powerful king of incredible riches and even more influence in the world. Instead, it belonged to a creature who could not have been more alone. She wore a large shirt that read “Rehab is for Quitters” and flannel pajama pants that, though certainly large enough to house a family of four, looked as if they'd seen better days. Her hair, disheveled, cropped around her ears, and standing on end in places, was chestnut brown, like her almond-shaped eyes, which were drawn to the point in defeated challenge as she stared out her window. Dragged across her upper torso was an almost impossible combination of jacket and robe, dull green in color, though one couldn't tell by simply looking. She seemed to clash with the exquisite locality she presented herself with––quiet, distant, out of balance with her environment. Her head turned expectantly now when she heard footsteps. It rarely did such a thing, as she was alone in the cell. She looked up from the beautiful couch where she had been reclining. Or, rather, sulking. She rarely sulked as well, but this was a special occasion. She allowed herself the honor of moping about for a little over an hour. “Visitors,” a monotone voice fumbled through her closed door. Visitors. Ah, yes. People to come say goodbye. People she had forgotten. People who had forgotten her. She slid off the couch without a word, slipping her bare feet into frazzled, gray house-shoes. She hadn't had visitors for years. Since after she'd been admitted to the hospital. She adjusted her robe as her slippered feet carried her across the room, to the door where the guard would take her to see once-family and long-lost friends. She made sure that the hospital emblem, which was stitched on all of the robes of patients, before preparing to meet the guard. “Are you sure there's no other way?” We want to make sure we won't regret leaving her here. “She will be safe here, though, she may not recover.” You're conscience is clean. She's a hopeless case. She remembered sitting outside the doctor's office as he rattled off report after report to her disillusioned parents. The parents who promised to see her every day. She remembered translating their conversation into her own words. They thought she was sleeping, exhausted from an entire day of tests and exploring a place that she thought she would simply visit. A haven she'd never experienced. A prison she'd never escape. “Don't say such things. I have hope.” Don't make my head hurt anymore with all these details. “As do we. But, I'm just stating facts.” We've already given up. Sorry. Of course they'd given up, she reminded herself as she and the guards made their way through the hallways of the hospital's third floor. The waiting room was on second. What kind of people would the hospital be if they simply let the patients run loose on the first floor, frightening visitors daily? She stepped into the elevator with the guards, all the while thinking. “She might not live. There might not be anything we can do for her.” Click here to read the rest of this story (109 more lines)
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