This Kaleidoscope is Broken...

“This kaleidoscope is broken, all its colours have spilled out.”

“What are you doing?” The voice that asked this question was soft and young and held a rasping quality.
“Playing,” came the equally soft and young answer, though the voice was smoother, “want to play too?” The speaker looked up as he asked, brown eyes peeking up from behind pale bangs.
“No,” the reply was monotone, the blue eyes bored, and the pale face expressionless.
“Please,” the blond whined, lower lip jutting out, his hands reaching out to grasp his counterparts' wrist. “Just one game?” He asked, wheedling as he tugged on the boy's arm, trying to get him to sit.
“No Ilsi, I will not play with you,” the reply this time was more emphatic, but not cross. The blond wrinkled his nose, face upturned to look at the darker boy. His games forgotten, he quickly pulled himself into a kneeling position,  his hands falling onto his knees. Seeing Ilsi's pleading expression, the other boy sighed, and dropped down, mirroring his position. “I'm not going to play with you,” he insisted, “but don't make faces they'll stick like that.”
Immediately Ilsi's upset visage smoothed out, leaving a blank, hollow look in it's place, trying to imitate his friend. They sat in silence for several moments, mirror images, and yet not. One boy was dark while the other was light. One boy exuded a cold dispassion, while the other radiated joy and childishness. They couldn't have been less alike. “Are you sure?” Ilsi asked finally, face splitting into a hopeful, docile grin.
Despite this, the boy's resolve didn't waver, “yep, I'm sure.”
Pouting once again, the blond huffed, “you're no fun Sïl, no fun at all.”
Sïl laughed softly, “I'm not suppose to be fun, remember?”
Ilsi shook his head, “remember what?” he demanded, brown eyes narrowed.
A sigh, “nothing Il', nothing at all,” Sïl looked up at the door, “I gotta go, okay, I'll see you tomorrow. And remember, no candy before supper.”
Before the blond could protest Sïl disappeared, and the heavy white door opened. In walked a large woman, her hands holding a plastic blue tray. 'Ilsi,” she cooed softly, not at all perturbed by the boy sitting on the floor, staring blankly a head, “it's squash and carrots,  mashed, with some chicken, your favourite.” She knelt down gingerly, her blue eyes unworried by the lack of response, “don't you want supper? There's candy after.”
This elicited a response, carefully, he turned his head, “okay.” He said softly, excepting the tray. He ate quietly, ignoring the woman's scrutiny as he did so. Once he was done, he placed the tray on the linoleum, and silently extended his hand. Smiling sadly, the brunette nurse handed him a small paper cup.
Inside was a myriad of colourful pills. Smiling slightly the boy peered in, “pretty,” he surmised then, without any hesitation the blond boy swallowed each one whole. He put the empty paper cup on his tray without a word, and resumed his staring.
With that over, the nurse stood up with the tray and walked out of the room, but not before ruffling his shaggy mop of hair. Behind her, the door's heavy lock clicked soundly into place. As she went down the white hall, another person joined her, “Cynthia,” the man was short, seemingly tiny compared to the nurse's large, curvacious frame, “how is our youngest patient?”
Cynthia grimaced slightly, “he wasn't violent, though I saw him talking to this 'Seyel', again. Are his parents here to complain once more?” She demanded, tone weary.
The small man sighed, taking off precariously perched glasses to rub a hand down his face, “the father is complaining that all this is postponing his trip to the mainland,” replacing his glasses he sneered slightly at the thought.
“And the mother?” The brunette prompted.
“She seems genuinely worried, but I don't think she really grasps the fact that whatever is wrong with her son can not be magically cured away,” the two medical professionals shook their heads sadly at the thought.
“Well,” Cynthia said slowly her large eyes darting away from her companion to look at the stainless steel metal doors at the end of the hall, “at least she cares.” As the two reached the doors, they paused, the brunette glancing back at room 143. “Dr. Lawrence, what do you think is wrong with him?” The nurse asked hesitantly, her tan face creased with worry.
The doctor sighed, “I don't really know, I honestly don't.” With that, he walked past the doors into a large waiting room. Cynthia followed suit, walking past the families and going through another set of doors. As she did so she heard the doctor say to a nervous looking red headed woman, “no Mrs.  Gott, he can't come home yet.” Cynthia Jones winced, personally, she didn't think Ilsi Gott would ever go home; he was just too broken.