The doctors burst into the emergency room. This is critical. No vitals, no signs of life. Revive him.
"Clear!"
Shock him, spark him, bring him back to life. We can't lose him. Flurry of motion and activity, hard work and undivided attention.
The monitor beeps slowly, rhythmically; the green lines on the screen spike upwards with methodic regularity. Eyes closed, breathing faintly.
They used to visit him, huddled around the bed holding hands, wishing for his recovery, praying for his return. As the days grew in number so the hopefuls dwindled in their expectations; the visits became less frequent. The monitor is the only sound, the only sign of life. The blips on the monitor are just as reluctant to acknowledge his presence as the visitors.
The lack of movement begins to eat away at his skin. The world has left him behind; the constant movement of everything outside overtakes the stillness in the room as he slowly fades away. The dust falls undisturbed on the bed. The monitor continues to beep faithfully, faintly.
The blinking cursor sneers at me. The empty page hits me in the face. Nothing. I've got nothing. They come and then they go, passing through my mind without leaving a trace of inspiration. Nothing sticks, nothing stays. The orphanage is empty. Left alone with my incoherent thoughts. The floor is a mess of misplaced creativity, lack of skill, oppressive emotions and withering motivation.
I can't keep my eyes on the page; movement outside the window, voices in the hall, all calling me, beckoning me, urging me to bury my dead on move on. The monitor seems smaller than it did before. The lifelessness of the room is stifling. I shake off the dust and abandon my post.
The monitor sounds once more, this time a single, sustained note.
