My Porcelain Princess

I still remember the first time I saw her in that hospital bed. It was the week before Christmas, and the sparkling lights twinkling in the tree outside her room were barely visible through the frost forming on the windowpane. She looked like a marble statue lying on a slab, so peaceful, so still. She was a Greek goddess or a piece of renaissance art, her breathing barely noticeable, her chest hardly rising.

On the chart at the end of the bed there was a barely legible but, from what I could tell, accurate record of her situation — the symptoms, possible cause and even vague notes about the implied prognosis… but to all who saw her and to all that cared, she was it seemed simply asleep; asleep and unable to wake up.

The medical options had been exhausted, the experts defeated — opinion after opinion was cast aside; diagnoses disproved, discarded. The case had been passed from doctor to doctor, expert to expert, with the result the same each time, no one could find a cause for this sudden slumber.

It had taken me a lot to come and visit today; we’d always made a point of going shopping together the Saturday before Christmas every year since school without fail. This would be the first in — what? fifteen years that we’d missed it. Through the turmoil of her divorce, my failed relationships and the death of her parents, we hadn’t skipped this tradition once.

So there I stood, warmed rose red by the Dutch courage of several mulled wines, and there she lay pale and pristine, my porcelain princess.

I’d known her all my life; we’d grown up together since before primary school. Same schools, same college and only a few years spent apart while we were at university. She’d been my best friend through it all and I was powerless to help her; I’d have done anything I could to wake her up.

We’d always been friends — just friends, nothing more… Well, there had been times I had been tempted to try for more but something had always got in the way… Like the time at the end-of-school party after our GCSEs, when we’d arrived together and spent the whole night together, barely acknowledging anyone else’s existence. We had talked the night away curled up next to each other on the sofa, my arm around her waist, our breathing synchronised but at that crucial moment when she’d turned around to face me I had shied away. That final step was too far, thoughts of rejection and loss had clouded my mind. In truth, looking back, the only feelings I felt about that night were regret.

She had once confided in me drunkenly, whilst she was dating my friend, that she had often come close to making a move herself but something had always got in the way.

That time we’d been at the summer dance in sixth form, she’d asked me to meet her outside. I’d gone, I’d waited, I’d paced up and down outside the club — but she never appeared. After half an hour I drunkenly stormed off, annoyed, confused and upset.

In reality she had been waiting for me, to confess her feelings for me, but her friend had drunk too much and had staggered out of the door before I had found her. The girl had been swaying around so much that she couldn’t just leave her on her own, so had taken her for a walk around the block to help clear her head — her selfless act for a friend getting in the way of her telling me how she felt.

And now… now she was here lying in this bed, my friend, the one girl I’d ever truly loved and I was powerless to help her. Through the empty doorway I saw a sprig of mistletoe that one of the nurses had playfully pinned to the wall. I felt my cheeks flush as I remembered last Christmas. We’d gotten a little too carried away with the mulled wine, her dancing around, teasing me, asking me to catch her like it was some schoolyard game. Typically, I had done my usual trick of not picking up on the hint until a few days later and had gone to the bar to get another round…

Maybe it was this year’s mulled wine, maybe simply my mind grasping at half-remembered children’s stories of princesses and princes, but I remember pausing, wondering, hoping… I strolled purposefully out into the hospital corridor and carefully plucked the mistletoe from the notice board before hanging it from the headboard of the bed.

I knew it was silly — that it couldn’t really work — but I leaned carefully over her, gently took her pale white face in my hands, closing my eyes and kissed her soft pink lips…

I stayed there for what felt like an hour afterwards, watching, waiting for a movement in her face, the flutter of an eyelash or the hint of a smile, but of course nothing changed — Life doesn’t always have ‘happy ever after’ endings…