The Bloody Doors Off

Hoshi liked to share.

She never spoke, at least not while I was on the ward. She wore the same hospital gowns as me; there was no way to tell how long she’d been there, all I knew for sure was she was a resident when I arrived and I suspect would be so for some time afterward.

Her hair was black, and long. Her eyes, sorrowful. Hoshi never smiled. I got the sense she lost something very dear to her, something that haunted her nights and most probably her every waking moment. I imagined a world in which she suffered a great loss, one that also took her voice.

You wouldn’t hear her approach. She was too soft on her feet. Soft. In a good way, that’s how I saw her. Sad and soft.

And she liked to share.

Hoshi would offer her rice pudding to anyone at the dinner table in the common room. Her small carton of milk was fair game. My first (and thankfully only) night, while watching TV, she appeared by my side and offered me a Snickers bar, one of two she’d acquired from the nurses station. I’d politely declined, twice. She still held it out for me. She knew I was lonely, depressed. Scared. She wanted to take the pain away, even if all she could offer was a piece of chocolate.

I’ve thought about Hoshi every day for the past three and a half weeks since I was released. I hope she finds her voice again.

I hope, one day, she sings.

This one’s for you.