a moment in limbo
by Brooklyn Armstrong
Looking out the window, Darla took a moment to admire the scene. The window fogged with the faint heat of her breath, fading as it chilled. Brisk air floated through white capped trees outside. Soft, yet icy flakes floated to the ground, adding to existing piles. Glowing red light shone onto the freshly salted parking lot, illuminated by the clinical building she found herself in. Sirens dissipated into the background.
Darla sat upright in her chosen seat in the bright room. The plastic backing had cracks through the middle, pulling her hair as she shifted with anxiousness. Fluorescent lighting buzzed through the quietness, as if it was breaking the silent tension. She toyed with mismatched colored tiles on the floor, tiles that simply looked cold without having to touch them. Her eyes pointed toward the dirty converse on her feet. A hint of salty sweat wafted through her nose; However, nothing could overpower the burning scent of bleach in the air. Crisp air that induced goosebumps without having a single breeze. A groan. Darla danced her eyes around warm, folded blankets, now growing cold. TV, muted, but the color shining back, coating the room in a certain comforting glow.
For some reason, she felt she had nowhere to be. A groan. A hospital bed. Thin white sheets tightly tucked over the mattress, grey woven blankets tossed to the side as if they would never be touched again, possibly burned after she left the room. Blinding streaks of light shone through translucent white curtains. A groan. White coated man at the door. Blank expression lay upon his face. The stiff room she found herself in shifted somehow to a darker, colder setting. No one knew where she was, except for her and the white coated man. Dirty converse on the floor. Clumps of mud stained the tiles beneath her feet. She was afraid the white coated man would scold her for touching such a pristine place with filth. Instead, the white coated man approached her. No, wait. He was headed toward the tightly made bed.
After further review, Darla could see the imprint where a heavy object had lain not long ago. A heavy object. Lays, not lain. Now she understood. The white coated man picked up one of the grey crumpled blankets. A groan. The blank expression he wore confidently dropped for only a moment as he began closer. A sense of grief washed over the room. The heat that once came from this bed has grown cold and stiff. Unwelcoming. The air filling the room was only becoming denser. He gently raised the blanket, giving it a good shake. As if not only shaking out the wrinkles but cleansing the moment as well. Hesitantly, he placed the still wrinkled blanket upon the now cold body that lay upon the bed. A groan. Body.
Darla rose from her seat, somehow feeling the pain of the chair pulling her hair again. Looking toward her dirty converse once more, she bent down to the colored tiles on the floor: which she could not feel the temperature of. A groan. Unlaced the brown tinted strings holding together dirt crusted fabric. She acknowledged the mess of mud she was leaving upon the tiles. Slid her feet out of constrictiveness that held her dear. She left them by the white coated man at the foot of the bed.
She turned on her heel, slipping ever so slightly on the tile. She did not look back. She ran, her bare feet meeting with the tile every step. She did not feel the cold, but she knew it was there. Finding herself sifting through the halls, gasping for breath. Somehow, she felt the briskness of the air without actually feeling the temperature of the space around her. Heavy air began to wrap around her ribs as if it was meant to live there; She began to scream until her throat was too raw to speak a word. Nothing in this world remains untouched. That did not matter now. She began to feel herself slip, with every step further away from everything she knew, collapsing herself upon the colored tile. She recovered only once more as she began to lose sense of her own breath. She finally realized she could not see her own chilled breath. She could not hear the world around her. Darla could no longer feel where she was. Still, she persevered, she ran, until there was nothing. Nothing at all.
Photo of Brooklyn Armstrong
BIO: My name is Brooklyn and I am a first-generation student studying psychology! I have rediscovered my love for writing during a fiction writing class at Winthrop University. It has truly opened my eyes to others work and critique, as well as the ability to feel proud of my own work.