"Bree."

I had refused to move an inch all that morning. It was a silent game, a battle of the wills I often played with myself, testing how far I could go. The nurses, I knew, were infuriated by my ability to sit curled into a ball in my empty room, unresponsive to all that went on around me. For myself, it was something to be proud of; yet another step to defying the inevitable. My room - that was, a room which was a lame excuse for a home - was empty, save for the dozens of machines piled into it. A visitor's couch, now abandoned with a thin layer of dust over it, was squashed into one corner of the room; not like I'd be needing that anytime soon, I thought bitterly. The only thing I prided myself on having in my room - a 6-inch plasma, embedded into the wall just at my eyeline, at my insistence, was silent, the chanels blanked out.

"Bree."

It was almost fun - annoying the nurses. I knew what this one wanted; my blood. Vampire, I thought. Would she drink it? Test it? Squirt metallic substances in it until it was overflowing to the brim? All of them were both realistic, and at the same time, unbelievably crazy. That was what staying in a hospital would do to you. You'd hear the voices, the chatter, the squeal of wheelchairs and steady rumble of food trolleys, but nothing would ever happen. My room was unbearably silent, so much to the point that I'd remain there, arms locked around legs, head lowered into my knees, ignoring all that went on around me. The nurse was afraid to touch me - I let out a soft snicker.

"Bree, I need your arm now. You want to get better, don't you?"

The guilt trick. I stifled another snort; like hell I did. I wanted to stay here, a crippled invalid confined to the limits of pacing restlessly around her room until she collapsed, or better yet died. I wanted hourly tortures of blood tests, of doctors watching me with sympathetic eyes, of hearing the steady beating of my heart slow to the point my death seemed inevitable. Inevitable. I sounded out the word in my mind - so real. I, better than anyone else, knew what it felt like. The heavy weight of the future crushing down upon me. A pyschiatrist had come in, despite my pleas to be let to walk down at least three steps to the pyschiatrist, but it hadn't been allowed. Instead she had come in, perching awkwardly on the visitor's couch, so far away from me, firing questions at me.

"What do you want to do when you grow up?" she had asked. "Die." I had answered quite honestly. That had thrown her - she hadn't known where to look. Instead, she'd glanced around the room. We'd sat there in surly silence until I'd been relieved of her company.

"Sir?" the nurse said this time; her voice held an uplifted tone to it. "Bree."

The glass door to my room slid smoothly open once more. Years of being here had made me practised to the sound; a thin hum of it's protective felt against the metal. I didn't move - I held my silence. Instead, I listened. I heard the fluting tones of the nurse's high, anxious voice; no doubt she was new to this and frightened of my ... my what? My insincerity when I put on a fake smile and pretended to be frightened? Then the doctor answered. His voice was a low bass rumble, an almost seductive purr, a - what? I jerked my head back instinctively, feeling the muscles in my neck cramp and scream in response. The thoughts had been tossed away, but now I saw him, and it was all the worse.

He was tall; no mere height graced him, either. He stood with a bold, firm-bodied stature that made me envy him; my weak body was far from his toned appearance. His hair caught the light in ways that surprised me; I had never known there to be so many different shades of black. No - i took that back, I thought bitterly; I, of people, knew the difference between grey and black. The difference between life and death; no, I pushed the thought away, those sort of words didn't belong with his image. His face - my breath caught in my throat, and then drew out in a ragged gasp. While the hospital paraded the pretty people in front of me like I was a judge at a fashion show, no words could quite capture him. His sculpted, strangely pale appearance; the way his cheeks were hollowed out, as if he'd spent days poring over my papers without eating, the way his dark hair stuck out in an unruly cowlick that conflicted with the way his clothes and general apperance seemed to fit him like a glove. His eyes caught mine - brilliant blue eyes - and held there.

"Bree." he said.

I stiffened automatically. He gestured to the frightened looking nurse; she scurried away immediately. I saw in his hand the metallic gleam of a needle - in his other hand, on fine fingers splayed out, he delicately balanced a tray full of miscellaneous food. My stomach turned. For days now, it had seemed food had lost it's flavour, sit-coms their comedies; my only two remedies gone. The doctor sat, pushing the tray onto the desk in front of me. Having already uncurled, I had no choice but to watch the food approach. His eyes weren't filled with sympathy; on the contrary, they were blank, only mildly curious.

"How old are you?" his dulcet tones were little more than a hum.

I eyed the tray of food - Cornflakes, milk,  orange juice, hospital-brand granola bar. All of them designed to entice, all of them failing miserably. I ignored the food, and focused on him instead.

"I'm seventeen." I said - my voice, too, was small. I didn't bother clearing my throat; if he thought my voice was small naturally, so be it.

"I see." the man's perfect brow wrinkled in confusion for a moment. "I'm ... Stevens. Doctor Jon Stevens."

I said nothing; what were names of interest to me? I dropped my gaze from Jon's unbearably handsome face, however, picking at the wrappings of my food. Too many time had I sent back my tray, untouched. No doubt he'd be interested to know that. The way he sat there - close enough to touch me, but not willing to - and not perched uncomfortably on the couch, so far away I could barely make out his form, but just in the middle, his eyes gleaming with some interest ... interested ... me. Unwillingly, I raised my gaze once more; he was looking right at me. His eyes burnt. He glanced away.

"See any good TV shows recently?" he said, gesturing to the TV.

My interest was crushed immediately. He was like any of the other doctors. I felt something within me tauten, close to breaking point. I'd been let down before; he didn't matter. This idle backchat had always frustrated me, and yet, when I'd shown the least interest ... he'd turned the topic away, to TV shows. I had seen nothing; I had let the TV rest for more than three days now, a record in all of the hospital. Even the nurses hadn't bothered to come in, even to stand unspeakingly and blink up at that wide black screen, when it was off. It just showed how ilttle interest they had in me; only enough to discuss my failing condition while standing outside.

I couldn't help it - my hand swept out, and with surprising accuracy, smacked into the tray. I felt my whole arm reverberate with the shock, but better yet was the tray. It went flying. The granola bar shattered into a thousand broken pieces on the ground, and the carton of orange juice burst open beside it, drenching it with droplets of artificial rain. The cornflakes suffered a worse fate; they were impaled upon the wiring hooked to one of my numerous machines, and with a sound akin to roaring in my ears, tore open. They fluttered everywhere, strewn up on an invisible breeze. And Jon's hand was outstretched, the carton of milk snatched in mid-air in his elegant grasp.

For the longest time we eyed one another, he with the milk in one hand, and the needle resting lightly in the other, I curled up upon my bed, feeble hand still flung in front of me. I could feel the pain lacerating up and down my arm; feel the strain of the muscle shaking in my shoulder. My side throbbed painfully, and yet, what was worse was the numbness in my arm; knowing that I had lost feeling due to a simple, stupid act. I didn't drop my gaze though. Our eyes burnt, mina murky green, his a clear blue, fighting in the air.

"Let me die in peace, would you?" I snarled finally, cradling my arm to my chest, "Then there's no need for faked friendships and pretend smiles."

Jon stood; I was almost happy, although the wound in my chest throbbed raw at the sight of him going. He paused for a moment, and then bent over me, exposing his throat. A hollow pulsed at the end of it, the veins so close to the surface I could've scratched him and felt his blood spatter me, if that was a victory. But it wasn't. He brushed the arm I cradled lightly - to my surprise, he was icy cold. So cold that I could've pressed myself to him, hoping for the numbness to travel all through my broken body. It seemed to soothe, the tremors in my arm fading somewhat. I glanced up, irritation dissipating, and for a moment saw something close to - an unnamable emotion, yet one I knew - in his eyes.

Then he'd turned smoothly, out the gliding glass door before I'd even been able to make a sound. I watched him go, silent. The room was empty once more, save for the disastrous painting of my breakfast across the floor. Someone would be in to clean it later, and I wondered, would I speak to them? My words had been lost for so long now. My stomach rumbled ominously; the first sound it had made on it's own for days. I let my back arch back into the pillows, all too aware of how tight it felt; like the taut string on a tightrope about to snap. Jon had placed the carton of milk just in my reach. I paused, eyes closed. My fingers found the smooth, round container; I found a dent where Jon's fingers had dug into it's thin, plastic exterior. A faint smile graced my features, almost.

I ripped the foil covering from it's top, revealing the thick, creamy milk within, froth bubbling up from it's first and last flight through the air. I paused once more, then pressed it to my lips. They trembled, unusued to the sensation of cold and warm mingling; warmth from the fetid milk's hours out on the trolley, and cold from where Jon's fingers had been.

And then I downed it in one smooth gulp, the milk rich, satisfying, slipping down my throat.