Coma

Living death. A state of non-being while breathing. His chest moved with life, but his eyes never opened to see the light by day or the light by candle. No one cried for him.

Few visited him in his isolated, sterile cell. He prefered it that way. He felt at peace for some reason. In his numerous dreams with no beginnings or ends, he was free. He was a feather in the wind, a wave in the ocean.

Few voices interrupted his drifting, eternal drifting, peaceful drifting. When they did, he would pause and listen to the hope drain from their voices.
No hope for recovery, they said.
No hope of ever seeing sunlight again, they mourned.

But who mourns the wicked? He pondered.
Surely they were glad to be rid of him. Right?

Eventually, he heard little from the outside. Instead he dreamed of a red haired girl and long summers in the sun and the shade. He dreamed of imagined featherlight kisses and apple-red lips. He dreamed of ---

Voices once again. Oh how he hated the voices. They took away the silence that was required to truely dream of paradise.

It was him, too. He didn't want to listen to the child-from-the-person-he-hated-most.

Go away.

Go away.

Go away.

Let me go back to silence and paradise, my personal heaven in the center of my personal hell.

Go away.

"I know you probably can't hear me. But... I just wanted to... I just wanted to thank you." He seemed nervous. "I know we never got along... but... I should just go. I'm wasting my time here."

Yes... go... go away.

"I hope you get better, Professor Snape."

Go away.

The voices left and he was enclosed in silence once again and there... there the colors of heaven blossomed to life and apple colored lips smiled at him from across the way.