Pinwheel.

The hum of the machines strangles the silence while the strange clock glows a red 00:32;
as if it's counting down rather than up.
He sits to my left,
next to the machine with the lines that give me away;
they stretch and sway with my breath.
In one hand rests his head.
Eyes heavy.
Face pale.
His other is holding mine,
enduring the pressure I apply every few minutes.
My right arm is stretched out
avoiding any contact that might remind me what's currently leaking into my veins.
When I remember, I become oddly aware of the drips behind me where I cannot look.
I take a deep breath.
He looks at me with eyes of helplessness.
I try and mimic the expression I see in my head,
but I am sure I come across just as scared as I really am.
Footsteps close in on the cold, blank room.
The curtain that separates us from the world shivers,
but doesn't open.
The footsteps fade.
I want to go home.