That waiting room seat was providing more comfort that it ever earned the right to. In all likelihood, the little miracle merely resulted from the remnants of the anesthesia still running through my veins. The prospect of standing up and working through the discharge paperwork worried me slightly though, owing to the fact that remembering my name and date of birth apparently required a conscious effort now. What did not, however, was the entire procedure to replace the planetary gear of a CHP25-B remote control arm swivel. A mystery of the mind, I assumed. The entire operation typically requires a little over a day and a half by the way, but that piece of information also served no purpose in the present situation. Remembering my home address certainly would have, and walking back to it was an unpleasant battle my future self would need to undertake soon. But the first order of business was to terminate the hourly bedroom billing. Thankfully, the resolutely unstaffed reception counter at the opposing side of the room extended the respite for now.
I gulped the remainder of a paper cup, hoping its water might contain a cleansing elixir. The nurse who gave it to me earlier coincidentally strode by while pushing a chariot of medical equipment at great pace, and she issued an absent-minded smile before slamming her way through two spring-loaded doors. As the rubber seams sealed the room shut again, background noises reinstated their quiet presence over the room. A ticking clock, air conditioning, a distant beeping device, a few minutes of this boring symphony passed by before a muffled clamor rose from the outside of the building. At this point, I owed to indulge my curiosity more than my exhausted body, so I pulled myself up to a nearby window.
On the large square enclosed by the hospital buildings, a rather disorganized crowd was slowly forming into a small protest: medical staff in white blouses, paramedics in their standard issued fluorescent vests, even a few patients and visitors joining in support. Two doctors had arrived with a painted banner in their hands -- isn't that a little old fashion in this day and age? Hastily painted letters on the repurposed support spelled three simple words: doctors not executioners. A few decades ago, the slogan would have sparked the ire of progressivists and feminists on the matter of abortion. Since then, wars, declining birthrates, and receding life expectancies had long settled the debate according to the people in charge. Ironically, the working population has kept its steady decline ever since, to a point that the judicial system could no longer afford to imprison anyone but the most unskilled workers. And doctors, as it seemed, were not willing to participate in the resolution of this issue.
Shifting my gaze away from the main attraction, I noticed the flow of incoming protesters still coming from each end of the traversing road. The small stature from some of them placed them no older than high schooler. And from their confident allure, they could not be moved by anything other than high ideals. I believe a faint sentiment of envy briefly sifted through my mind at this sight, but a haze of confusion superseded its effect as drugs reclaimed my attention span first, and my legs second. The hampering effect returned not so quickly that I'd fail to notice the police officers observing from afar.
Damn, that seat was comfortable, too bad I couldn't watch what would happen next.
No matter.
Peacekeeping units would soon be dispatched to scatter away the hospital agents. The outsiders would be brought in for a thorough 'ID check', and that would be the end of the show for this bunch of amateurs.
Well, I'm hardly in a position to criticize, am I? What have I ever done to help?
I was too exhausted anyway, if that was any excuse. Besides, I was only a few weeks away from a scavenger job in the contaminated lands. So, basically: joke's on you, dear people in charge. I'd had a shit life all along, and its future was only bleaker. Your little law couldn't take anything from me anymore.
My futile exercise in cynicism stopped with a little thumping noise originating from the sealed doors. They moved slightly but failed to open at first. Then, one side alone opened barely enough for a head to peek through, which showed up at a much lower height that expected. The poor little girl forcing her way in had to squish herself inside the tight opening before successfully passing through. Based on her patient outfit and unsteady gate, it was quite apparent that she had also left her bedroom much too early. Still, she appeared to be moved by some superior objective, and demonstrated a valiant effort against the aftereffect of her anesthesia.
'Sweetheart, are you looking for someone ?' I said, breaking away from the confusion caused by her apparition.
The little girl, who was probably four or five years old at most, finally picked on my presence. However, my kind voice and reassuring smile fell substantially short of their intended effect. Instead, a heartbreaking expression of distress took hold of her face, her breathing turned to sobbing and tears started flowing from her eyes. Nonetheless, she still lumbered in my direction and then reached out for her relief in my embrace.
She had a lot to say apparently, though I could barely make out the words between the sobbing, sniffling and mumbling. Something about her mom. Regardless, I figured holding her tight and caressing her curly hair would serve a greater purpose in her current condition. And before long, a reflow of the chemicals sent her back into a slumber, though her frail body kept a tight grip of me, and her breathing remained slightly short and wary even in her sleep.
The phone inside the nurse office sounded off around this time, and its call magically summoned the ever missing nurse on the spot. Unburdened from any load, she flew by at an even greater pace than earlier, promising to see me soon while she dived behind the office counter. The presence of the girl hugging me had most evidently escaped her attention.
"Where is everyone ?" was her first sentence.
I was actually quite curious about that too. Even with the protesters accounted for, this building seemed awfully short-staffed.
"Are you kidding? What the hell is going on today? Yeah, I'll look out for her."
You won't have to, she's right there.
"Eliza was called in ER, I wasn't even told about the patient here."
That would be me...
"I'd rather be with the others outside right now."
Judging by the sounds coming from there, you probably don't.
"No I haven't seen any officers. Whatever the hell are they here for?"
Watching over the protesters perhaps? Although, the actual explanation must have been more involved, since it caused a prolonged silence on our side of the line.
"Seriously? That's fucking disgusting."
Normally, such a sentence would rank as a benign opinion, but not in the mouth of medical practitioners. For them, the 'fucking' level of disgustingness could potentially encompass realms of terrifying implications.
"Well it's not like I have a choice do I ?"
A weak beeping noise marked the end of this one-sided dialog.
"Madam, there has been a small mistake. I must accompany you back to your room for now."
The nurse had just addressed me from behind the desk, although a clicketing keyboard indicated that her immediate attention still belonged to a more urgent form-filling work. My patience had run very thin at this point, even though the nurse probably bared little responsibility in the circumstances.
"Actually, there are two of us now." I noted flatly.
The clicketing ceased at once and the nurse leaped out of an office chair that kept rolling for a second. The sight of me, with a sleeping child tightly strapped onto my chest, had somehow frozen the hyperactive nurse on the spot.
For the first time since my awakening, I saw her move at a peaceful pace and make her way in front of me quietly. The odd silence between us lasted for a few too many seconds before she could address me again.
"I'm so sorry. This little miss probably got lost. Let me take care of her." She said, extending her hands forward.
No.
That expression of wariness in your eyes is wrong. The empty hospital is wrong. The fucking disgusting thing is wrong. The cops yelling outside are wrong. Wasting my health amongst the ruins of a past war is wrong. My heart racing up right now is wrong.
This little girl on my chest, her warmth, her embrace, this is right. Everything and everyone else is wrong.
"What did you do?" I slipped in a whisper.
Imperceptibly, her expression shifted into silent plea that cried of guilt. Every passing second now brought us closer to potential crisis, the nature of which I could not yet fathom. But of us two standing in this room, I figured I stood to lose the least. Maybe it was a little selfish of me, and probably cruel too, but I remained still and wagered our time for an answer.
"You're an activist... I think," she finally dropped.
Pre-time! I had just served pre-time. What had you monsters taken away, that could not be stolen from my future ?
"I think the word got out about your... sentence happening here." Her eyes shifted to the doors on the left, and came back to us. "And this is your step-daughter... I think."
The nurse approached slightly. Did she think I might faint? Could she not see the child in my arms? Could she not understand? No. I would not falter. Not yet. Not ever, so long as this child was under my protection. And when her eye met mine again, and she saw what she saw, the nurse backed away.
"Nothing was done to her," she assured, "she was only brought in for calibration."
I saw her gaze descend to the child's face, her skin pale as snow, her dried tears marring her cheeks and her little hand clenching on my cloth, those proved otherwise.
"Tell me her name" I blurted, my voice strangled by the emotion. "Tell me her name, please" I restated more gently.
The nurse turned her attention to the doors once more.
"Tell me and no one will ever know you let her through," I insisted.
The nurse took a good look at us, closed her eyes, inspired deeply, and let a hearty "fuck it" out.
A frantic keyboard clicketing later, she came back with her side of the deal fulfilled, and her conscience ever so slightly lighter.
"Helena."
What a lovely name you have, I thought.
I closed my eyes, rested my cheek against her head and slipped a kiss in her hair as I felt her go away from my arms.
No worries, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I already had this idea of sentence method in mind tbh, but I couldn't muster the motivation to write a full blown story. Your prompt came in just perfectly for a one-shot, thank you.
I also had the Blade Runner atmosphere in mind while writing it. The second movie has that line: "all the best memories are hers". I think it raises an interesting question on the link between memories and how we measure our own existence.
5 replies
That waiting room seat was providing more comfort that it ever earned the right to. In all likelihood, the little miracle merely resulted from the remnants of the anesthesia still running through my veins. The prospect of standing up and working through the discharge paperwork worried me slightly though, owing to the fact that remembering my name and date of birth apparently required a conscious effort now. What did not, however, was the entire procedure to replace the planetary gear of a CHP25-B remote control arm swivel. A mystery of the mind, I assumed. The entire operation typically requires a little over a day and a half by the way, but that piece of information also served no purpose in the present situation. Remembering my home address certainly would have, and walking back to it was an unpleasant battle my future self would need to undertake soon. But the first order of business was to terminate the hourly bedroom billing. Thankfully, the resolutely unstaffed reception counter at the opposing side of the room extended the respite for now.
I gulped the remainder of a paper cup, hoping its water might contain a cleansing elixir. The nurse who gave it to me earlier coincidentally strode by while pushing a chariot of medical equipment at great pace, and she issued an absent-minded smile before slamming her way through two spring-loaded doors. As the rubber seams sealed the room shut again, background noises reinstated their quiet presence over the room. A ticking clock, air conditioning, a distant beeping device, a few minutes of this boring symphony passed by before a muffled clamor rose from the outside of the building. At this point, I owed to indulge my curiosity more than my exhausted body, so I pulled myself up to a nearby window.
On the large square enclosed by the hospital buildings, a rather disorganized crowd was slowly forming into a small protest: medical staff in white blouses, paramedics in their standard issued fluorescent vests, even a few patients and visitors joining in support. Two doctors had arrived with a painted banner in their hands -- isn't that a little old fashion in this day and age? Hastily painted letters on the repurposed support spelled three simple words: doctors not executioners. A few decades ago, the slogan would have sparked the ire of progressivists and feminists on the matter of abortion. Since then, wars, declining birthrates, and receding life expectancies had long settled the debate according to the people in charge. Ironically, the working population has kept its steady decline ever since, to a point that the judicial system could no longer afford to imprison anyone but the most unskilled workers. And doctors, as it seemed, were not willing to participate in the resolution of this issue.
Shifting my gaze away from the main attraction, I noticed the flow of incoming protesters still coming from each end of the traversing road. The small stature from some of them placed them no older than high schooler. And from their confident allure, they could not be moved by anything other than high ideals. I believe a faint sentiment of envy briefly sifted through my mind at this sight, but a haze of confusion superseded its effect as drugs reclaimed my attention span first, and my legs second. The hampering effect returned not so quickly that I'd fail to notice the police officers observing from afar.
Damn, that seat was comfortable, too bad I couldn't watch what would happen next. No matter. Peacekeeping units would soon be dispatched to scatter away the hospital agents. The outsiders would be brought in for a thorough 'ID check', and that would be the end of the show for this bunch of amateurs. Well, I'm hardly in a position to criticize, am I? What have I ever done to help? I was too exhausted anyway, if that was any excuse. Besides, I was only a few weeks away from a scavenger job in the contaminated lands. So, basically: joke's on you, dear people in charge. I'd had a shit life all along, and its future was only bleaker. Your little law couldn't take anything from me anymore.
My futile exercise in cynicism stopped with a little thumping noise originating from the sealed doors. They moved slightly but failed to open at first. Then, one side alone opened barely enough for a head to peek through, which showed up at a much lower height that expected. The poor little girl forcing her way in had to squish herself inside the tight opening before successfully passing through. Based on her patient outfit and unsteady gate, it was quite apparent that she had also left her bedroom much too early. Still, she appeared to be moved by some superior objective, and demonstrated a valiant effort against the aftereffect of her anesthesia.
'Sweetheart, are you looking for someone ?' I said, breaking away from the confusion caused by her apparition. The little girl, who was probably four or five years old at most, finally picked on my presence. However, my kind voice and reassuring smile fell substantially short of their intended effect. Instead, a heartbreaking expression of distress took hold of her face, her breathing turned to sobbing and tears started flowing from her eyes. Nonetheless, she still lumbered in my direction and then reached out for her relief in my embrace.
She had a lot to say apparently, though I could barely make out the words between the sobbing, sniffling and mumbling. Something about her mom. Regardless, I figured holding her tight and caressing her curly hair would serve a greater purpose in her current condition. And before long, a reflow of the chemicals sent her back into a slumber, though her frail body kept a tight grip of me, and her breathing remained slightly short and wary even in her sleep.
The phone inside the nurse office sounded off around this time, and its call magically summoned the ever missing nurse on the spot. Unburdened from any load, she flew by at an even greater pace than earlier, promising to see me soon while she dived behind the office counter. The presence of the girl hugging me had most evidently escaped her attention.
"Where is everyone ?" was her first sentence.
I was actually quite curious about that too. Even with the protesters accounted for, this building seemed awfully short-staffed.
"Are you kidding? What the hell is going on today? Yeah, I'll look out for her."
You won't have to, she's right there.
"Eliza was called in ER, I wasn't even told about the patient here."
That would be me...
"I'd rather be with the others outside right now."
Judging by the sounds coming from there, you probably don't.
"No I haven't seen any officers. Whatever the hell are they here for?"
Watching over the protesters perhaps? Although, the actual explanation must have been more involved, since it caused a prolonged silence on our side of the line.
"Seriously? That's fucking disgusting."
Normally, such a sentence would rank as a benign opinion, but not in the mouth of medical practitioners. For them, the 'fucking' level of disgustingness could potentially encompass realms of terrifying implications.
"Well it's not like I have a choice do I ?"
A weak beeping noise marked the end of this one-sided dialog.
"Madam, there has been a small mistake. I must accompany you back to your room for now." The nurse had just addressed me from behind the desk, although a clicketing keyboard indicated that her immediate attention still belonged to a more urgent form-filling work. My patience had run very thin at this point, even though the nurse probably bared little responsibility in the circumstances. "Actually, there are two of us now." I noted flatly. The clicketing ceased at once and the nurse leaped out of an office chair that kept rolling for a second. The sight of me, with a sleeping child tightly strapped onto my chest, had somehow frozen the hyperactive nurse on the spot.
For the first time since my awakening, I saw her move at a peaceful pace and make her way in front of me quietly. The odd silence between us lasted for a few too many seconds before she could address me again. "I'm so sorry. This little miss probably got lost. Let me take care of her." She said, extending her hands forward.
No.
That expression of wariness in your eyes is wrong. The empty hospital is wrong. The fucking disgusting thing is wrong. The cops yelling outside are wrong. Wasting my health amongst the ruins of a past war is wrong. My heart racing up right now is wrong.
This little girl on my chest, her warmth, her embrace, this is right. Everything and everyone else is wrong.
"What did you do?" I slipped in a whisper.
Imperceptibly, her expression shifted into silent plea that cried of guilt. Every passing second now brought us closer to potential crisis, the nature of which I could not yet fathom. But of us two standing in this room, I figured I stood to lose the least. Maybe it was a little selfish of me, and probably cruel too, but I remained still and wagered our time for an answer.
"You're an activist... I think," she finally dropped.
Pre-time! I had just served pre-time. What had you monsters taken away, that could not be stolen from my future ?
"I think the word got out about your... sentence happening here." Her eyes shifted to the doors on the left, and came back to us. "And this is your step-daughter... I think."
The nurse approached slightly. Did she think I might faint? Could she not see the child in my arms? Could she not understand? No. I would not falter. Not yet. Not ever, so long as this child was under my protection. And when her eye met mine again, and she saw what she saw, the nurse backed away.
"Nothing was done to her," she assured, "she was only brought in for calibration."
I saw her gaze descend to the child's face, her skin pale as snow, her dried tears marring her cheeks and her little hand clenching on my cloth, those proved otherwise.
"Tell me her name" I blurted, my voice strangled by the emotion. "Tell me her name, please" I restated more gently.
The nurse turned her attention to the doors once more.
"Tell me and no one will ever know you let her through," I insisted.
The nurse took a good look at us, closed her eyes, inspired deeply, and let a hearty "fuck it" out.
A frantic keyboard clicketing later, she came back with her side of the deal fulfilled, and her conscience ever so slightly lighter.
"Helena."
What a lovely name you have, I thought.
I closed my eyes, rested my cheek against her head and slipped a kiss in her hair as I felt her go away from my arms.
If only I could forget how I felt afterward.
No.
That moment belonged to me.
Every moment belonged to me.
Every moment defined me.
Hey sorry it took so long to get to this. Fantastic take on the prompt! Very heartfelt and tear jerking, I quite appreciated reading it.
No worries, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I already had this idea of sentence method in mind tbh, but I couldn't muster the motivation to write a full blown story. Your prompt came in just perfectly for a one-shot, thank you.
I also had the Blade Runner atmosphere in mind while writing it. The second movie has that line: "all the best memories are hers". I think it raises an interesting question on the link between memories and how we measure our own existence.
I don't know about this prompt...
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