San. Maria

• James Rusiti, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2010

The monotonous ticking of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece, painfully slow. The gentle creak of ancient wooden floorboards, worn from hundreds of footprints, the last of a person's existence . The leaves whisper outside, conversing secretly with the wind. No breeze flows within the off-white walls of this time-honoured structure, Dimitri's home, Dimitri's life.

Shadows creep silently through the corridors, visually out of place in the scarlet afternoon sun, yet completely at home in the corners of his eyes. The absence of the Pitter-patter of winter rain was unusual at this time of year, and Dimitri wished it would never come back. The rain would fill the gutters with autumn leaves, silently waiting for the gardener to clean them out again in the warmth of spring. The hospital seems to sigh under the weight of another cold winters day, an old and tired soul praying for sleep. Sleep came so easily to Dimitri, yet the more he slept, the more he became tired, a never ending cycle of corrupt dreams and scattered memories.

Dimitri disliked winter, spring never came soon enough, save for when his favourite nurse entered the room; a momentary glimpse of a warm springtime evening under the stars.
“Are you feeling any better today, Dimitri?” she asked.
Her words echoed the song of a nightingale in Dimitri's mind. His only response was to turn and gaze into her eyes, transfixed. They were deep blue, like the ocean alongside a forgotten life, an old home; fragments of a memory. Her dark pupils reflected his own and he stared into his own eyes, hollow, empty, the eyes of a man who saw so much, without seeing anything.

The old wooden floors, the damp stained walls, San. Maria hospital had so much history, such an interesting past. Dimitri longed for that, longed for that sense of direction that a history gives you, without a past there can be no future. But Dimitri's past was gone, the people most important to him washed away by time. He knew deep down that those vivid snapshots of another person's life were his own belongings, he held the key to acceptance, right there on the tip of his tongue. If only it wasn't locked away. Hidden by his loss, he loss of his love. Dimitri dreamed, dreamed his life away, dreamed of not a place nor a time merely a feeling, the last of his happiness. His scattered memories were all that he had, but never what he wanted.

Dimitri looked up at her from his bed, they looked into each other's eyes, searching for answers to their own questions, ones never to be answered.
“Please.” asked Dimitri quietly.
“Can I call you her name?”