The corridor was freezing, practically Arctic. It didn't help that he was barefoot, which really made no sense, since he was otherwise immaculately dressed in the most magnificent silk-wool blended black and white Christian Dior ensemble, and sporting a matching black fedora, complete with swan plume. Could he possibly have driven to the hospital without shoes and socks?
Something was wrong with the hospital, too. As the visitor made his way towards the far room, a private room, the diamond white hallway seemed to telescope and extend into infinity. At this rate, he'd never get there before visiting hours ended. The sunflower and Peruvian lily bouquet in his hand started to wilt and he frowned. This would never do. The person he was visiting, he... she... he... um... who was he visiting? Well, it didn't really matter, whoever it was, they were sick and he was there to be supportive, to cheer them up and maybe even sing them something. Damn! He hadn't prepared any song.
Suddenly from every open doorway harsh glaring lights flooded the corridor and he couldn't see. From all sides he was bombarded with derisive whispers:
"No song? Withered flowers and no song?"
"You don't even have a song?"
"What kind of friend are you?"
"He was counting on you."
"Now he's dead for sure."
The visitor dropped the flowers and started to run blindly. Time was running out and he had to see the patient. He started to gasp for breath and stumble with fatigue. That made no sense, either. He was young and vital, well-conditioned and agile. But against his will, his legs slowed, slowed, and then he was back to walking at a normal, measured pace, placing one bare foot deliberately in front of the other. The corridor was dark now. All the doors leading off it were closed and the walls were dishwater grey. When did the color change? Well, it didn't matter, he was nearing the end. Finally! The last room was sealed by an iron door with a big round valve instead of a door knob.
"Visiting hours are now over," a high-pitched female voice chirped over the public address system. "All guests must leave immediately."
No! He had to see the patient behind the iron door. It was critical. It was life or death! He grabbed the valve and strained to turn it. Not a movement, not a budge. He gripped it again, hands now cramping and stinging, and threw all his weight against it. Nothing.
He began throwing himself against the door, pounding his fists on it, screaming in panic. Suddenly he stopped, because now his feet were warm and wet. Looking down, he saw red seeping from under the door. No, not red. Crimson. Blood. He jumped back and stared at the door. There was a word on it now.
With an anguished cry, he hurled himself one last time at the unholy barrier and … fell flat on his belly in front of a sterile steel table.
No. No no no no no. He simply wouldn't look. If he didn't look, it wouldn't be true.
""I... d-don't know wh-why I'm f-frightened," a male voice whispered hoarsely.
He climbed to his knees. His Dior suit was drenched in blood, completely ruined.
"The l-light's... already … b-burning," the man on the table sang haltingly in a strange, reedy tone.
The visitor rose to his full height, and stared down at the body, now covered completely with a white sheet.
"I spent so many mornings, just trying to resist you." The man's voice seemed to be fading, yet the diction was smoother. "I'm trembling now, you can't know how I missed you."
His heart was pounding unbearably now. He had to see, because it just wasn't possible. The visitor ripped the sheet off the figure. Dave's dull, unfocused eyes and blue lips were unmoving. His once-rich baritone, now hollow and distant, arose from the angry wide gash across his throat.
♫ Everything's as if we never said goodbye ♫
Kurt bolted upright in bed. And screamed... and screamed.. and screamed...