The Good Morning that Never Came
Description
It had been months since you'd stopped walking among the others. A few seconds of pain had resulted in a little, illusionary world of dreams that you'd never wake up to talk about. If only he could talk to you about them, he'd know peace. But he continued to strive for the day he could say "good morning" to you.
Anyonex comatose reader.
May be triggering.
Foreword
The quality of your voice never mattered to him- he just liked the words you chose and the tones you used. The way you dressed never mattered to him- he just liked the expressions you made and the effort you'd put in to your appearance for him.
He had always found you breathtaking, but he had to admit that you didn't have the same flair that you did when you were animate.
Even with your hair combed and the peaceful look on your face, your tranquil, cold grace, although magnificent, was nothing compared to what you had been before. But every day, he'd go to visit you. Every day, he'd bring a book to read you, in hopes that you'd dream of dragons, nymphs, and adventures while you lay in silence.
Sometimes he'd even talk to you, his ears waiting to drink up the sound of your voice. He'd forgotten what you sounded like, after all these months. He didn't care. He just wanted to listen to you talk again.
"Good morning. Did you have any dreams while I was gone?" He asked, staring down at you.
"Neither did I. I didn't sleep much, either. I was just, this is weird, I was thinking about you. I was watching TV, and this actor kind of reminded me of you."
"The show was about this doctor who had to overcome their past. I don't know, I'd never seen an episode before. It was in the middle of the season."
"They were the best doctor in all of Korea. And, I got to thinking, what if you could see the best doctor in Korea? Maybe they could wake you up. I mean, this place is only so good."
"I know it's expensive, but I decided that I'd work until I had enough money to send you to her. You deserve the best, after all."
His monologuing was cut off by a surge of nostalgia. Silence filled the room. No longer was the slow, sappy love song resounding off the walls. He began to quiver, and finished.
"I have to go. I'll be back and I'll bring you to someone who can help. I don't care how long it takes. I love you."
Months passed, each day more soul-crushing than the last. His friends begged him to stop. He was tearing himself apart. They never blamed the injured, of course, for his crumbling was not your fault. You couldn't be blamed for the incident. Nor could he. It seemed fate was the only one to be held accountable.
For two years, he continued his journey through the desolate wasteland one could deign to call work. His hair grew gray, his skin started to match, he began to slouch and creak with every step he took.
Even still, he worked for you.
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