Summary: The numbers, the grime, the path to the end. A comfort in dark times. Sometimes it's the small things that matter.

Soft Blue

“Guten Morgen.”

Blue eyes opened to a grimy ceiling, white plaster smeared with filth and age-induced decay. He breathed out, then in, the scent of the air matching the ceiling, although to a much more muted level. Shifting to his elbows, he winced as a sore shoulder ached. He licked his lips, mouth too dry for comfort, and looked across the room.

It was in a superior state of neglect, the curtains rotting (he suspected they were once a soft blue), small objects and debris littering the ground.

Breathing (just keep breathing), he swung his legs over the plain white cot (it was lumpy and smelled of mold) and placed his bare feet on the too-cold tiles.

His clothes were not his own, thin and plain: a white shirt and white pants that clashed with his own appearance.

He looked for his clothes and found them soon enough; well-worn jeans, a gray shirt, and a black zip-up hoodie. (Paint smattered one of the sleeves; white or maybe a very light gray...) He changed quickly, and, unable to find shoes, he carefully picked his course through the items on the dirty floor. He made his way to the window and pushed aside the battered curtain. The window was too deep in its neglect to be called transparent anymore and he tried to open it, pushing the handles up as hard as he could, but it did not yield. With a defeated sigh, he wiped his hands on his jeans. Stared at the window panes and caught himself counting the scratches. Fifteen. He turned to the door, a few paces way, but something caught his eye.

It was a desk. Or maybe just a table. A nightstand? He wasn't sure. Maybe it just didn't matter. Whatever it was—he hadn't noticed it during his first survey of the room. How odd; he'd always been an observant person. Shrugging off the discrepancy, he approached the—he decided—table and looked at what lay upon it.

Like everything else, there was a strong indication that no one had touched it in years. The surface was covered in a liberal amount of dust, the clipboard upon the surface clamped together yellowed paper. He bit his lip and carefully picked up the clipboard, almost afraid that the papers would crumble to dust. They didn't. A spotless surface, free of dust, was left behind and for a moment he admired that isolated bit of perfection before glancing back to the clipboard.

His brow furrowed. Blinked and concentrated on the letters presented to him. He recognized them a little. He knew that the first one, way at the top and on the left side was a T, and then there was an e further to the right. But looking at the rest, he could only garner a few nonsensical letters; nothing to aid him or provide information. He couldn't read it. It was like every time he tried to focus, the lines became swiggley and incomprehensible. But when he looked away, saw them in the corner of his eye, he knew they were words.

And then realized that the first word, way at the top left side, with a T and an e, was his own name. Tracey. Something like childish pride glowed in his stomach before he realized something else.

Tracey... who?

He looked back to the chart, blue eyes seeking the answer, but nothing yielded. He did not know his last name. With a sigh, feeling more deprived than he had when he started, Tracey carelessly placed the clipboard back on the table and turned away. Nothing left in the room, not anything more than what lay on the ground, and Tracey didn't have to look to know that it was nothing.

He then decided to go through the door, and in five steps he was there, turning the brass doorknob. The door stuck, but with a firm shove it gave way with hardly a stumble to compensate, Tracey was through the door and peering around.

That was when he became aware of a distinct smell. It didn't fit with his surroundings, dirty and dank as they were. This was new and fresh, something that should have faded away quite some time ago. Antiseptic.

He was in a hospital.

The hallway that the door led to was dark and had once been a suffocating white. Now it was... nothing. Not white. But not not white. An off-white. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes; yawned. He felt so tired, but he had just woken up. With a sigh, he wiped his palms on his jeans and peered down the hallway.

“Hey,” he called, voice coming out soft and hesitant. The syllable wavered and faded. There was no reply.

He walked further into the hall, water-damaged tiles crunching under his bare feet, making him wince. He could feel how the corner of one tile had warped upward with the ball of his left foot. The place was filthy. Tracey sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Anyone here?” He asked, not even bothering to raise his voice. He was not surprised when he received no answer. He chose a direction and walked. At one point he looked up and realized that something vile was staining the ceiling. He decided not to think about what.

The halls were cold. Not enough to make someone really shiver or see their breath, but enough to make goosebumps rise. Tracey pulled his sleeves down over his hands for warmth. His footfalls were soft and silent, keeping suit with the hospital's demeanor.

It was upon turning a corner that he found a waiting area. Stiff blue chairs lined the off-white walls; torn, dusty, and molded with their steel arms rusting. It was small in size and Tracey counted a total of twenty chairs. Set away in a removed fashion was a receptionist's desk. He hesitated, then stepped forward, hands slipping inside his pants' pockets as he grimaced at the grime caked upon the desk.

There was a clipboard there, too, and Tracey tilted his head in an attempt to catch something. The board was labeled simply, something that he was delighted to find he could read: Juvenile Ward.

Nine names were listed, one that Tracey was able to recognize as his own, but the rest only had a handful of recognizable letters.

He turned away and cast his gaze about the room. Very little else was notable; a neglected coffee table and overturned floor tiles. But to his far right, a corridor connected to this waiting room that he stood in, and almost hidden by the precise right angle were the doors of an elevator. Tracey approached it, leaning forward slightly in curiosity, fastidious eyes drinking in the details.

The doors were battered, rusted, the blue-gray paint peeling and faded at some parts. The call button next to it was flecked with dirt, the metal around it liberally rusted.

It was foolish, really—how could something so ancient still function? Nevertheless, Tracey reached out with his right index finger and pressed the button and wiped his finger on his pants. Moments passed, and nothing. No little light to show the elevator was on its way, no soft whir of gears. Just silence.

Tracey turned away and nearly took a step before he heard a terrible groan. It was metallic and pained—a great effort at the end of one's life. Tracey's body stiffened with fear and uncertainty, blue eyes wide and darting about warily.

He turned suddenly, licking his lips with a parched tongue as he watched the deteriorating elevator doors slide open—slow, halting for agonizing moments before continuing. With a final clack, the doors were open, revealing the squalid interior that made Tracey's lip curl with disgust. He inched his way forward, peering into the elevator with grudging curiosity.

Behind him, a light flickered and died.

He wrapped his hand around the door of the elevator, wincing at the cold and grime and after one long moment, stepped inside. He turned around in time to see a second light fade out of existence and shivered. Staring blankly at the lobby, Tracey felt a sense of urgency, desperation and suddenly lurched forward to press the close button. With a great creak, the doors began to slide together even as the light just outside the elevator began to waver. The doors halted for a moment and Tracey pushed the button repeatedly, hairs on his neck standing up. He backpedaled and watched from the back of the elevator as the doors resumed their actions and the light flicked out for a moment, then back on. At the same moment the doors cringed shut the light died and—

The elevator plunged.

Tracey's knees buckled, hating instinctively the feeling of falling and having no control. The elevator lights flickered. One, two... Tracey gripped the filthy bar behind him for balance and took deep breathes. The light kept flickering. Eleven, twelve... The elevator stopped. Thirteen. The doors opened and Tracey darted out, breathing shakily. Fourteen.

A stone stairway. Tracey stared down, loathing the darkness, the dirty and slippery stairs, but knowing that there was nothing behind him. If he stared just long and hard enough, he thought he could see a light down, at the end. Tracey swallowed. Closed his eyes. Took a breath. And began to descend.

The darkness almost made him turn back, if not the grime. But the mere thought of the action sent thrills of panic down his spine, made his breath edgier, his pupils smaller. Ten... He did not turn back. Instead he timed his breaths with his steps, tugged a sleeve over his hand and held onto the mildewy railing. Fourteen... The stairwell became so dark, at one point that he closed his eyes while he descended and pretended that it was a clean, dry place. It didn't work. Nineteen... When he opened his eyes, he saw light and flinched in surprise. Almost took a step back before pressing onward eagerly, forgetting his numbers in favor of the assumed safety.

When he reached the landing and rushed through the door, a loud clang told him he could not turn back. The air was cold, the light now seemed dim and mocking rather than bright and reassuring. The air was thin and each breath seemed to slice away at his throat. Tracey swallowed. There were cabinets lining the walls in every which way. Metallic tables gleamed pristinely in the light, trays arranged neatly next to them.

Tracey flinched and swallowed bile, covering his mouth with his hand. Ragged breaths filtered between his fingers, warming his cold hands and his eyes watered. He longed for the filthy elevator to take him back upstairs, back to that darkness. Anything was better than a morgue.

Keep going no turning back, it's not anything—just keep going. Tracey swallowed, but couldn't tear his eyes away from the tables (five of them), nor could he ignore the dreadful feeling that emanated from the cabinets. Someday that'll be you. Blinking, he turned away. He looked around at his other surroundings, but found the walls blank except for one door. He approached it slowly, immediately wary. It was plain and tall and smooth, a steel handle at the appropriate level, something that Tracey knew would not turn once he saw the rusted and dusty keypad. Biting back his disdain, he trailed his fingers over the buttons and a brief sense of calm washed over him. He knew the combination.

The window pane scratches. Fifteen.

He pressed in the digits and flinched at a sudden crash, whirling around. A tray lay on the floor, the tools askew and spread everywhere. Tracey took a breath (just keep breathing) and turned back.

Steps to the door. Five.

A rattling sound from one of the cabinets. Tracey stilled, waited, then rose his shaking hand to press in the next numbers.

Waiting room chairs. Twenty.

Scratching sounds screamed through the air, begging to be let in from the door Tracey had gone through. Panting, the boy strained to focus and remember.

Names on the clipboard. Nine.

A light dimmed, flickered, then died. Tracey gasped out a whimper.

The flickering lights in the elevator. Fourteen.

More lights gone. He could do this. Almost finished, he'd be fine, and gone, and nothing would hurt him.

The stairs...

The stairs. With a despairing groan, Tracey cursed himself. The light—a distraction. The stairs—

Something began to bang against the other door and Tracey flinched. He felt the darkness begin to close in on him.

The stairs. Twenty-something. He didn't know what. Twenty-four? No. Too soon. And twenty-eight too late. He felt something, soft and smooth as silk, wrap around his leg, spikes of ice traveling up his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Please, please... He closed his eyes and concentrated. Not twenty-four. Counting, concentrate... twenty-five... twenty six... Twenty six.

He punched in the numbers, the dark tugging gently at him and finally...

The tables in the morgue. Five.

The darkness faded; let go of his leg and slunk away. The air became docile and there was a soft blue light in Tracey's eyes, but so gentle and warm that it didn't hurt. Wind brushed his hair. A kiss on his forehead and caressing fingertips on his brow. Tracey closed his eyes and smiled.

“Good morning.”

End Soft Blue