"There's no change," Doctor Havel's monthly prognosis was delivered on cue.
A sigh escaped her. Barely audible… the merest whisper… a reluctant weariness… from the depths of her soul…
A sigh of dejection laced with a growing resignation.
The doctor turned to pat the lifeless hand.
"How much longer, doctor?"
"Who knows? Weeks? Months… maybe years…?"
"Can she hear anything? Feel anything…? Anything at all?"
You can never get a direct answer.
A welcome sense of detachment overpowered her, seeped into every fibre of her being, curled itself around her heart, extinguished the wavering glimmer of hope… dulled her senses…
You can find out more about the weekly drabble, hosted by Aheila on her blog: http://thewriteaholicblog.wordpress.com