06-23-2014, 02:07 PM
"You're going to do WHAT to me WHERE?"
"You need surgery, Hollywood. Or you'll never walk again."
Jay looked around a windowless room and swallowed anxiously. A narrow desk was shoved to one side and served to hold a metallic instrument tray. Industrial lights hung from hooks in the ceiling. And a gauzy tarp dangled over a gurney pilfered from a nearby fire-station. None of it looked too sterile.
Doctors were scarce in Sierra Leone, and the ones with surgical skills were all the rarer. Jay was none too pleased by the prospect of being short a useful leg. But going under the knife in an office in the middle of the embassy with two guys that probably hadn't slept in 36 hours. Not his top priority of the day.
Turned out, he didn't have a choice.
He woke in screaming pain, twice. But was able to do little more about it than groan incomprehensibly. Disconcerting dreams filled the time between. He ran through cornfields only to fall off the side of a cliff. He played chess with brothers and cried when he won. He constantly dropped a shield he was trying to carry up a mountain.
The third time he woke, the heat was cooler, the pain softer. The dreams faded into obscurity, but their sensations lingered a few moments: frustration and honor chased, and fear - deep, deep fear.
It took a few moments to gather his bearings. Of all the bullshit he'd done to himself in life, sprains, gunshot wounds, lacerations, burns..sliding into home and breaking his ankle against the catcher.. he'd never needed surgery.
He wasn't a fan.
He was on the floor, he realized. They'd put a drape beneath him, but that was about all. No pillow or blanket. Which was why his toes were numb, likely. He'd been stripped of socks, boots and pants. Actually he didn't mind that last part. Pants were great and all, but sometimes a guy just wants to lay around post-surgery in his shorts. Alright?
He followed the trail of an I.V. line from his hand up to a bag dangling on the window crank overhead. He frowned at it, though anything that delivered drugs was a friend in his book, he wasn't too fond of being tied to a plastic bag.
"Hey!"
He grumbled, voice gruff and sharper than his fogged-mind at the moment.
"Where's my socks?"
He yelled toward the hall. "And my kitten?"
"You need surgery, Hollywood. Or you'll never walk again."
Jay looked around a windowless room and swallowed anxiously. A narrow desk was shoved to one side and served to hold a metallic instrument tray. Industrial lights hung from hooks in the ceiling. And a gauzy tarp dangled over a gurney pilfered from a nearby fire-station. None of it looked too sterile.
Doctors were scarce in Sierra Leone, and the ones with surgical skills were all the rarer. Jay was none too pleased by the prospect of being short a useful leg. But going under the knife in an office in the middle of the embassy with two guys that probably hadn't slept in 36 hours. Not his top priority of the day.
Turned out, he didn't have a choice.
He woke in screaming pain, twice. But was able to do little more about it than groan incomprehensibly. Disconcerting dreams filled the time between. He ran through cornfields only to fall off the side of a cliff. He played chess with brothers and cried when he won. He constantly dropped a shield he was trying to carry up a mountain.
The third time he woke, the heat was cooler, the pain softer. The dreams faded into obscurity, but their sensations lingered a few moments: frustration and honor chased, and fear - deep, deep fear.
It took a few moments to gather his bearings. Of all the bullshit he'd done to himself in life, sprains, gunshot wounds, lacerations, burns..sliding into home and breaking his ankle against the catcher.. he'd never needed surgery.
He wasn't a fan.
He was on the floor, he realized. They'd put a drape beneath him, but that was about all. No pillow or blanket. Which was why his toes were numb, likely. He'd been stripped of socks, boots and pants. Actually he didn't mind that last part. Pants were great and all, but sometimes a guy just wants to lay around post-surgery in his shorts. Alright?
He followed the trail of an I.V. line from his hand up to a bag dangling on the window crank overhead. He frowned at it, though anything that delivered drugs was a friend in his book, he wasn't too fond of being tied to a plastic bag.
"Hey!"
He grumbled, voice gruff and sharper than his fogged-mind at the moment.
"Where's my socks?"
He yelled toward the hall. "And my kitten?"
Only darkness shows you the light.