Post by Dane Hart on Oct 10, 2017 19:10:40 GMT -5
“Just don’t sneeze,” said Dane wryly.
The countdown wasn’t really making him feel any better. Knowing that she was almost done if anything made it seem to take that much longer. Still, he did his best not to squirm and she did her best not to chop up anything that didn’t require it, and they got along in that fashion. She didn’t have to worry about him looking, even though she warned him, because he had seen enough of the operation with the first two incisions. He was content to watch the ceiling, and wonder if it might’ve made more sense to put him out for the duration of the operation.
Of course, he was oddly more comfortable bantering about the situation than he was with the idea of slumbering through. Unsurprisingly, she seemed more confident and open to the conversation, now that she could see what lay inside him quite literally. They had spoken at length about him, and now he wondered what he could get her to divulge about himself. The prospect made him nervous, though, as he wasn’t sure what details he was meant to already know. Would it just upset her more, repeating things she might’ve shared in the past?
“I’m guessing you went to school for this, at some point,” he said hopefully. “Maybe even Ivy League? I can just imagine you slumped over a desk, dying of boredom as a professor-” The words stopped, and a sudden shortness of breath hit him so quickly, he wondered if Magdalene had punctured his lung. Still, she seemed unconcerned. “As a professor… drones… on,” he finished. He blinked a few times at the visage of the rose on the ceiling. It was getting blurry, the colors of pale plaster bleeding to cover the whole scene.
With each new dive into his torso, he felt more nauseated. It wasn’t just the sensation of the forceps against his muscle tissue. It was as though a hand was pressed over his mouth, muting his words, smothering his brain. He was growing more and more distant from their makeshift operating room with each step the procedure took. He focused his hazy stare on the I.V. steadily pumping him full of fluids, wondering if it could be the cause. The room didn’t smell like sterile walls and clean bedding anymore, nor like rain and fire and dead, nor dead things. It smelled like salt, it smelled like he was out over the ocean.
Part of him wanted to warn Magdalene, tell her to stop. Whatever she was doing had finally started to hurt, but it was a far off memory of pain. It was the ghost of a pain he had already experienced, a phantom. They were so close to finished, though, and he knew she would not be pleased to have to stop. It was as though she was even more desperate to get the bullets out than he was, and she couldn’t even say why. They hurt, but it seemed like they had been in there for quite some time already. If he hadn’t died yet, maybe it could wait.
Yet, when he tried to open his mouth, nothing occurred. It was as though the anesthetic had spread from his chest to his arms, his legs all the way through to his toes, and up into his mind. He no longer felt his body laying in the hospital. He was somewhere far away, standing on a bed of jagged rocks, swaying like a palm tree in the breeze that rolled off the sea. There was no way for him to warn Magdalene, because he had left her company entirely. He stood engulfed in the shadow of the lighthouse, and watched down the barrel of a gun, as anguish consumed his heart.
The countdown wasn’t really making him feel any better. Knowing that she was almost done if anything made it seem to take that much longer. Still, he did his best not to squirm and she did her best not to chop up anything that didn’t require it, and they got along in that fashion. She didn’t have to worry about him looking, even though she warned him, because he had seen enough of the operation with the first two incisions. He was content to watch the ceiling, and wonder if it might’ve made more sense to put him out for the duration of the operation.
Of course, he was oddly more comfortable bantering about the situation than he was with the idea of slumbering through. Unsurprisingly, she seemed more confident and open to the conversation, now that she could see what lay inside him quite literally. They had spoken at length about him, and now he wondered what he could get her to divulge about himself. The prospect made him nervous, though, as he wasn’t sure what details he was meant to already know. Would it just upset her more, repeating things she might’ve shared in the past?
“I’m guessing you went to school for this, at some point,” he said hopefully. “Maybe even Ivy League? I can just imagine you slumped over a desk, dying of boredom as a professor-” The words stopped, and a sudden shortness of breath hit him so quickly, he wondered if Magdalene had punctured his lung. Still, she seemed unconcerned. “As a professor… drones… on,” he finished. He blinked a few times at the visage of the rose on the ceiling. It was getting blurry, the colors of pale plaster bleeding to cover the whole scene.
With each new dive into his torso, he felt more nauseated. It wasn’t just the sensation of the forceps against his muscle tissue. It was as though a hand was pressed over his mouth, muting his words, smothering his brain. He was growing more and more distant from their makeshift operating room with each step the procedure took. He focused his hazy stare on the I.V. steadily pumping him full of fluids, wondering if it could be the cause. The room didn’t smell like sterile walls and clean bedding anymore, nor like rain and fire and dead, nor dead things. It smelled like salt, it smelled like he was out over the ocean.
Part of him wanted to warn Magdalene, tell her to stop. Whatever she was doing had finally started to hurt, but it was a far off memory of pain. It was the ghost of a pain he had already experienced, a phantom. They were so close to finished, though, and he knew she would not be pleased to have to stop. It was as though she was even more desperate to get the bullets out than he was, and she couldn’t even say why. They hurt, but it seemed like they had been in there for quite some time already. If he hadn’t died yet, maybe it could wait.
Yet, when he tried to open his mouth, nothing occurred. It was as though the anesthetic had spread from his chest to his arms, his legs all the way through to his toes, and up into his mind. He no longer felt his body laying in the hospital. He was somewhere far away, standing on a bed of jagged rocks, swaying like a palm tree in the breeze that rolled off the sea. There was no way for him to warn Magdalene, because he had left her company entirely. He stood engulfed in the shadow of the lighthouse, and watched down the barrel of a gun, as anguish consumed his heart.