Wings

I look around the room. Wings bed still sits next to mine, her breakfast still uneaten, but Wings is gone. A lone orange slice sits; Wings refused to eat sliced oranges. She had nothing against an orange she peeled herself, but if it had been cut, she wouldn’t touch it with a meter-stick.

I hear a shout from somewhere outside my room, then the sounds of doctors running and talking at equal speeds. One of the other patients must have hurt themselves. I don’t particularly care. I had suddenly been overcome with the need to sleep. It made sense; the past few nights, I’d stayed up pretty late talking to Wings. I smile, remembering our conversations about which anime character she resembled, then drift off into dreamland.