ficlet~
Just another ficlet, piece of shit, drabble, crap-o-la, exam distraction, etc.
Dedicated to saint-sorrows
He's been like this since he can remember. Everyday sitting in blinding agony in a hospital bed, crying at the nurses to give him more morphine, codeine, prozac, anything that will make him feel better. But they won't. They refuse. They say meds will screw with his antibiotics. If only he didn't have to have them.
He's in a different hospital today, one he's never been to before. It was only built a few years back, but he never trusted it. He was taken here by paramedics when the most recent accident happened.
He was wheeling down a street, minding his own business, hoping to get a copy of The Daily Mail before they all ran out, when he was pushed over by a gang of juvenile ruffians who pulled him down a side street and abused him violently, kicking him in the stomach, breaking his ribs and laughing when he cried out for help. What was he supposed to do? It's not like he could get out of this situation on his own. When they finished, he was left there, for four hours. A homeless man took his chair. It was only when the bin-man came down for the dumpsters that he was found. Who knows how long he would've been there?
The ambulance was called after the bin-men chatted about what to do, and he was dragged into this horrible place. Bleach white walls surrounded you from the first step inside, the halls were clattered with medical equipment and bedpans were left out in the open. He was always too sanitary for his own good, but he knew keeping urine around the place was not a usual occurrence.
He was wheeled into surgery where they adjusted his ribs, placed his legs back the way they were and prepared for telling him the horrible news.
"I'm sorry to say, Mr. Way but, you're paralyzed from the legs down," Dr. Morris said, calm, solemn; like a retard who's taken his meds.
"I know," Gerard replied, dull tone striking the doctor harshly.
"Oh," the doctor started, turning red from embarrassment. The nurse across the room chuckled to herself.
"I've been like this since I was born, I'm pretty used to it now. It's no shock," Gerard laughed. But it was a shock. It's been a shock everyday; waking up to try and get out of bed, only to remember that you can't move your legs properly. Getting into your chair and wheeling around your one-story house, trying to reach the top shelf for your Count Chocula or Lucky Charms and being a few inches short. Having to sit down in the shower, never being able to reach that specific spot that was itching you. Always having to get helpers to come into the house to wash the floors and change the beds. It was hell being like this, it really was. Nobody knew how it felt, nobody except the other lonely paraplegics.
"Haha, I guess not. Must be second-nature to you now, not having any legs to use," the doctor laughed strong and loud, almost obnoxiously, like a arrogant child who thinks he owns the world just because his parents got him a Dreamcast before the other children.
"Doctor! I hardly think that's right to say," the nurse piped up. The name on her tag read 'Julie'. It was a bright, clean, polished tag - most probably an intern. I never much cared for 'Julies'.
"Oh hush nurse. You have no say in what I do! I'm the Chief of-fucking-medicine around here! Do you know that?" the now-Chief almost screamed at the innocent little intern, "now go and finish your rounds and get out of my sight!"
"Yes, doctor," Julie sighed and quickly scuttled out of the room, embarrassed and in shock.
"I'll just leave you to yourself then, I'll get a better nurse to do your rounds from now on, too." the Chief said proudly, like he'd finished his job with a high distinction.
He put the stinc in distinction.
Dedicated to saint-sorrows
He's been like this since he can remember. Everyday sitting in blinding agony in a hospital bed, crying at the nurses to give him more morphine, codeine, prozac, anything that will make him feel better. But they won't. They refuse. They say meds will screw with his antibiotics. If only he didn't have to have them.
He's in a different hospital today, one he's never been to before. It was only built a few years back, but he never trusted it. He was taken here by paramedics when the most recent accident happened.
He was wheeling down a street, minding his own business, hoping to get a copy of The Daily Mail before they all ran out, when he was pushed over by a gang of juvenile ruffians who pulled him down a side street and abused him violently, kicking him in the stomach, breaking his ribs and laughing when he cried out for help. What was he supposed to do? It's not like he could get out of this situation on his own. When they finished, he was left there, for four hours. A homeless man took his chair. It was only when the bin-man came down for the dumpsters that he was found. Who knows how long he would've been there?
The ambulance was called after the bin-men chatted about what to do, and he was dragged into this horrible place. Bleach white walls surrounded you from the first step inside, the halls were clattered with medical equipment and bedpans were left out in the open. He was always too sanitary for his own good, but he knew keeping urine around the place was not a usual occurrence.
He was wheeled into surgery where they adjusted his ribs, placed his legs back the way they were and prepared for telling him the horrible news.
"I'm sorry to say, Mr. Way but, you're paralyzed from the legs down," Dr. Morris said, calm, solemn; like a retard who's taken his meds.
"I know," Gerard replied, dull tone striking the doctor harshly.
"Oh," the doctor started, turning red from embarrassment. The nurse across the room chuckled to herself.
"I've been like this since I was born, I'm pretty used to it now. It's no shock," Gerard laughed. But it was a shock. It's been a shock everyday; waking up to try and get out of bed, only to remember that you can't move your legs properly. Getting into your chair and wheeling around your one-story house, trying to reach the top shelf for your Count Chocula or Lucky Charms and being a few inches short. Having to sit down in the shower, never being able to reach that specific spot that was itching you. Always having to get helpers to come into the house to wash the floors and change the beds. It was hell being like this, it really was. Nobody knew how it felt, nobody except the other lonely paraplegics.
"Haha, I guess not. Must be second-nature to you now, not having any legs to use," the doctor laughed strong and loud, almost obnoxiously, like a arrogant child who thinks he owns the world just because his parents got him a Dreamcast before the other children.
"Doctor! I hardly think that's right to say," the nurse piped up. The name on her tag read 'Julie'. It was a bright, clean, polished tag - most probably an intern. I never much cared for 'Julies'.
"Oh hush nurse. You have no say in what I do! I'm the Chief of-fucking-medicine around here! Do you know that?" the now-Chief almost screamed at the innocent little intern, "now go and finish your rounds and get out of my sight!"
"Yes, doctor," Julie sighed and quickly scuttled out of the room, embarrassed and in shock.
"I'll just leave you to yourself then, I'll get a better nurse to do your rounds from now on, too." the Chief said proudly, like he'd finished his job with a high distinction.
He put the stinc in distinction.