Random Fragment from the Delusion Story
I just found this lurking in a random folder on my hard drive. I think I wrote it sometime last fall.
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He came in on a Saturday, stretched out on a gurney, and was rushed to the Emergency Room. They worked on him for around eight hours, and when he was stable they moved him to the ICU, which is where I found him.
He had been shot five times in the chest and abdomen. A police officer told us that it was drug related, and so for the first week or so he was handcuffed to his bed. The fact that he was in a coma was seemingly not considered.
I would clean his dressings and administer his medicine, and it always seemed so strange, bathing an unconscious victim, someone who I would never meet in the real world.
The bullet holes dotted his chest, and the scars from surgery distorted his tattoos, making them appear disjointed and sloppy. A tattoo of a beautiful woman, naked and beckoning, now seemed grotesque and maimed.
He woke in the middle of my visit.
“Yo, yo, yo man, what the fuck are you doing? Touching me and shit.”
“Hey, calm down. I’m keeping you alive, you know.”
“Whatever man, can’t you get a bitch to do this shit?”
“No, not really.”
“Whatever. But don’t spend more time than you half too, know what I’m saying?”
So every day I would come by his room for a few moments, and engage in defensive banter with him.
One day, he looked up at me, and for just a moment his voice softened and his demeanor melted away. He was terrified.
“Doc, what’s it going to be for me? Am I going to get out of here?”
“Well, yeah, of course you are. You’re getting better, so why wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah yeah, I know. Just wondering, that’s all.”
“You’ll be fine, you’re a lucky guy.”
He laughed, a dry, bitter laugh, and looked at me like I was a damned fool. “Oh yeah,” he said, “Real fucking lucky.”
I didn’t know what to say.
After three months and twenty-one days, and around three hundred thousand dollars worth of medical treatment, he was fit for release.
We all walked him down to the lobby, congratulating him and saying things like, “Now, we don’t want to see you back here, you hear?”
He left the building, and as he was walking always he turned at looked at me, shook his head softly, and smiled.
“Thank you,” he said. I nodded, smiled, waved, and went back to my routine.
He was shot dead in the parking lot.
---
He came in on a Saturday, stretched out on a gurney, and was rushed to the Emergency Room. They worked on him for around eight hours, and when he was stable they moved him to the ICU, which is where I found him.
He had been shot five times in the chest and abdomen. A police officer told us that it was drug related, and so for the first week or so he was handcuffed to his bed. The fact that he was in a coma was seemingly not considered.
I would clean his dressings and administer his medicine, and it always seemed so strange, bathing an unconscious victim, someone who I would never meet in the real world.
The bullet holes dotted his chest, and the scars from surgery distorted his tattoos, making them appear disjointed and sloppy. A tattoo of a beautiful woman, naked and beckoning, now seemed grotesque and maimed.
He woke in the middle of my visit.
“Yo, yo, yo man, what the fuck are you doing? Touching me and shit.”
“Hey, calm down. I’m keeping you alive, you know.”
“Whatever man, can’t you get a bitch to do this shit?”
“No, not really.”
“Whatever. But don’t spend more time than you half too, know what I’m saying?”
So every day I would come by his room for a few moments, and engage in defensive banter with him.
One day, he looked up at me, and for just a moment his voice softened and his demeanor melted away. He was terrified.
“Doc, what’s it going to be for me? Am I going to get out of here?”
“Well, yeah, of course you are. You’re getting better, so why wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah yeah, I know. Just wondering, that’s all.”
“You’ll be fine, you’re a lucky guy.”
He laughed, a dry, bitter laugh, and looked at me like I was a damned fool. “Oh yeah,” he said, “Real fucking lucky.”
I didn’t know what to say.
After three months and twenty-one days, and around three hundred thousand dollars worth of medical treatment, he was fit for release.
We all walked him down to the lobby, congratulating him and saying things like, “Now, we don’t want to see you back here, you hear?”
He left the building, and as he was walking always he turned at looked at me, shook his head softly, and smiled.
“Thank you,” he said. I nodded, smiled, waved, and went back to my routine.
He was shot dead in the parking lot.
posted by David at 1:58 PM
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