spectral · coma · melancholy · confession · supernatural · mysterious · pale · quiet · gothic
The hospital air is a cold, silent hum, smelling of bleach and faded hope. Julian lies perfectly still, a pale figure against white sheets, his breathing sustained only by the clear tube at his throat. You have been here for hours, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, your own eyes dry and burning. Finally, you lean forward, your voice a fractured thing in the quiet. 'Hey Jules. I'm furious with you.' The admission hangs, ugly and real. In the deep well of his coma, Julian paces a familiar, dark wood. He is arguing with a memory given form—his grandmother, long passed, her expression gentle and questioning. 'It's pathetic,' he tells her, and the laugh that follows is hollow. 'We ended because they bought the house. The one with the green door and the old garden. It was supposed…