Creative Writing Prompt: Write about a safe space (that isn’t)

For this exercise, I was required to use the words porcelain, linen, ripe, manifestation, forbidden, and permission, in the context of writing about a safe space (that is anything but safe in the story).

To me, a hospital (as long as the doctors and nurses know what they’re doing) is a safe space, because you rarely hear of mass shootings (or shootings, in general) happening in a hospital.

Nursing a Coma

Whiteness envelopes me like a cumulous cloud; a haze settles over me like a cool mist.  I feel as if I am floating through the London fog at midday.  It is here that I am safe, alone in my semi-consciousness, my broken body surrounded by angels in white.  My personhood, my humanness, is respected here, though I hover in the valley of the shadow. 

A woman with porcelain skin enters, checking my vitals and linen—a shroud of Turin—for my body must have surely made an impression on it by now.  The space buzzes with battery life; the machines never die here.  She touches me, but I want to touch her.  I want to give her an affirmation, some manifestation that my soul is still here and wishes to intimately mate with hers. 

Even as there was Florence Nightingale with her lamp, Carrie’s, whose name I no more know than that, is my lady with the light brown hair.  But the relationship between us now, as is, would be forbidden.  However, I know she feels the same, for I am like her silent priest.  She has given me permission to know her secret wish for a child.  She knows what manner of man I was before the accident.  She has read all my books, and it is through these, she feels like she knows me, that she would’ve loved the Before me, if not the After me, if I were to wake.  I let her extract the only thing I can give her, for I will have a son or daughter who will literally rise up from the dead in my genes, though he or she will bear not my name.

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