Siren's Pull

[Mary has been crying. Obviously, unattractively, ugly-crying; the evidence is still all over her face. It's an unflattering look on top of how visibly sick she is, looking pale and feverish and miserable. She's sitting in a hospital room in Skye, curled up in a chair squished uncomfortably into the corner. The narrow space between the chair and the actual hospital bed is taken up by one of those fold-out cots they have for family members, smushing her into the corner, forcing her to curl up with her knees to her chest in the chair.

That's the thing, though. The cot is empty. The hospital bed is empty.

There's a long silence, until you almost wonder if this is an accidental post, in which she just stares past the camera, worrying a silver charm bracelet on her wrist.]

It's killing people. I haven't seen it in the news yet, but it's killing people. The guy in the morgue said everything was quiet this morning. Now it's a rush. [She bursts into a violent coughing fit, looking slightly green.] I talked them out of kicking us out of the room- but Jesus Christ, how am I supposed to sleep in here, you know?

[Suddenly she seems to realize how awkwardly she's oversharing, and pulls herself together a little, rubbing her eyes and running her hands through her hair. Despite outwardly getting it together, she's still obviously hanging on by a thread, something dull and brittle in her eyes.]

If you know me, please- let someone know that you're alright. If you don't, if we've never spoken... I don't care, I still wanna know that you're okay. So many people in this city are alone.