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White. Not the colour of freshly laundered sheets, but that bright, startling white, devoid of life, of hope. Sunlight tries in vain to fight its way from behind the curtains. The lone picture on the wall is a pathetic attempt at normalcy, it's falsely bright colours a painful mockery to the visitors. The room is swathed in a deathly hush . Beep. Beep. Beep. The only sound, it's noise a perpetual reminder to them. It resounds off of those blank walls, pressing suffocatingly into the straight-backed visitors. Their gazes are blank and empty, voids of raw pain and desperation. Their eyes are locked on him, lying motionless in front of them. A pale, waxy face, eyes shut. He is oblivious to their pain, his lips curved into a sort of smile.
  Click. They turn towards the door. A familiar figure enters. Slim, tired blonde hair in a ponytail. Uniform the same glaring white as everything else. Her eyes skim over them. Her lips curve into a smile, forced and falsely cheerful. She looks at him, checks the machine beside him. As she works, her mouth moves, chattering to them, but they cannot hear, anguish having dulled their senses until all they can hear is that steady, even beeping, all they can see is his face. To her, they know, he is just another person. They are just more visitors. This is merely another room. To them, this room is a suffocating nightmare from which they cannot escape. He is a son, friend, partner, soon to be a father. The fair-haired woman leaves.
    The young woman is the first to rip through the silence, covering her mouth in a futile attempt to smother a strangled sob. Tears trickle, unchecked, out of the corners of deep brown eyes. She falls to the ground beside the narrow bed, takes hold of his limp hand. She laces her fingers into his, closes her eyes, desperately praying that her sheer hope will jerk him back to Earth. Pressing his palm against her swollen stomach, her lips move in a silent plea.
Please.
I'll do anything.
Anything.

Why is no-one ever listening?