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The wallpaper peels away slowly, the ugly blue colour fading away. Dust settles upon the woodwork, upon the chairs and even the drawn curtains but never on the bed. Its occupant, ill and perhaps expiring, sleeps in this old room; she is there because someone brought her, because of that night of nights on sweet July. The clock ticks away the long minutes, chiming every hour...

... She does not wake.

Time goes by, taking with it the peace of the large manor. The house cleaners whisper to each other, gossiping about the woman ‘young master Albert’ tends to, how romantic their relationship must be because of the amount of caring and patience. The butler hushes them and scolds them for their laziness; the silence returns. They go back to work, not because that old bat tells them to, but because the young master is climbing the stairs leading to the old blue room.

He unlocks the door and enters, casts a glance at his servants and disappears from their sight. He is a doctor, son of a now-deceased noble; an aristocrat with seemingly good intentions. It is with this aura that he enters and drops a tray on the nightstand, quickly undressing his sleeping guest. Contrary to the maids’—servants, in general—belief, he does not take pleasure in this task, he does not enjoy the way her skin looks under the lamplight nor the way she shivers from his touch when he applies a balm to her skin with gloved hands.

He stops.

She, on the other hand, is awake with wide eyes, watching how his body tenses and how his expression turns sour, lips drawn into a thin line. It bothers her how his hands go back to his sides and how the air smells like bitter almonds and alcohol. The clock chimes, announcing that it is now six o’ clock and she remembers; she remembers who she is, and remembers that man who welcomed her in his arms, calling her—

(Juliet!)

Everything is fuzzy after that.

“Albert...?” she manages to choke out under the heavy pressure of her lungs and chest. The name is a call of recognition, of reassurance that this isn’t a dream, that she is truly in the company of someone. She wants to tell Albert something but the heavy discomfort on her abdomen remains, labouring her breathing. She feels weak, helpless, but most of all, she feels hot.

Albert examines young Juliet with care with the hands that only a doctor possesses, placing a palm against her forehead: a fever is in the making and he thinks that perhaps he should leave her to rest and come back within the hour, but then he thinks to himself that this isn’t a good idea. Maybe, he thinks, he should just get this over with and tell her.

“My chest hurts, Al.”

“That’s a fairly common symptom, don’t worry.” His hand lingers, he smiles, like one of those doctors that offer comfort to families, and Juliet envisions him telling her she’s about to die, that she’s going to be free of her mortal shell and that she will fly with her dead lover to the Gates of Heaven. It would be so simple this way, she says to herself, but life is hard and that’s all that seems to be logical. The way he turns his head and the way he lifts up a hand to his hands suggests that something is wrong, something is weighing down on his shoulders; something is not right. “Eat. I’ll be back in an hour.”
____

Hours are slow, like painful days now, to Juliet. It is a miracle, she thinks, to have endured those sixty minutes. Now tired, she thinks that time is heavy and unforgiving; when she was healthy, walking and running, she thought time didn’t last long enough. Everything is in a different colour now, in a different light, and she is glad that Albert is there with her in that ugly blue room. She is young, she is going to die and that saddens her a bit.

“Albert, why are you doing this?”
He sits there, cold, aloof, fingers entwined. “You know exactly why.”
The paraphernalia of the room suddenly asphyxiates the poor woman, her lungs contracting and tensing in the most unpleasant way. Her face is red, ruddy, and her breaths come in wheezes. Her head hurts, her lungs hurt. Everything hurts. “No,” she chokes. “I don’t.”

IGNORE THE BOLD PARAGRAPHS FOR THEY ARE SHITTY AND SHOULD BE KILLED WITH FIRE DUE TO BIG, BIG CLICHÉ.




...ahaha, something I'm stuck on. ]: It needs a lot of fixing.

What?

Why the huh's and wtf's? .-.

I again say what's with the nyee's.

]: I'd rather have some reason for the wtf, pls.

.-.

What report?

Thanks. [:

I didn't really like those paragraphs but left them there as decoration until I have an epiphany (or just get inspiration by reading some random medical article) to keep it going and to bring it to the end. In fact, I had a friend who told me this,

"You can finish this story in seven ways; Three that will be amazing, two that will be okay and three that will make me vomit."

I already know how it's going to end. The problem is making the words flow. c: <333

Thank you for the valuable input~ ♥