Hospital waiting room

Self consciously he takes a seat, legs stretch out and cross, hips forward he slouches, hands on the armrest- tapping in time to the beat of his mind. Magazines on a table, Woman's weekly, Vogue, others concerned with gardening, the weeks television, cooking, all very interesting to someone he imagines. Occasional thirsty lonely plants overlook the thin easily cleaned carpet, flat and barren, the only change in terrain provide by the children toys in the corner. "Smokers Die Younger" plastered on the walls reminding everyone of their self destruction, reminding the smokers they could do with a smoke. It's the elderly that give it away though, expressionless, calmly pale, patiently awaiting their turn, making peace with the knowledge they will soon be forgotten, passively eager to find out how long they have to remember themselves.

Aware you don't accidentally end up in a hospital waiting room he tries to retrace what brought him here. He thinks back to before he sat, almost hit by a speeding trolley pushed by three in white, a paramedic in an extremely visible green and yellow jacket breathing fast, rocking back and forward trying to pump life into the limp body he is kneeling over. He had to jump out of the way, the only passenger who noticed him was the paramedic, their eyes locked together, he could feel the short forceful breaths of exertion on his face, it felt cold. The trolley sped off to its destination, turning he saw the whole waiting room looking his way, eyes wide and alarmed, their attention caught by the commotion. Uncomfortable with the attention his confidence was a casualty and he hurriedly found a seat.

This tangent is the last thing he remembers clearly from the immediate past, undoubtedly the cause of his memory loss is what brings him here. Curious for answers he checks his body, his large slender hands check where he can't see, feeling for anything unusual. No pain emanates from his body so he moves to his head, discretely, rubbing the back, forcing a yawn as if just tired, all he feels is hair, short and soft at the back, moving up, longer and waxier on top, preferring it to look flat and shiny. Coming over and down his fringe his surprised little finger unexpectedly flips into a small crevice in his forehead. He pulls his hand away and tentatively explores with his fingers the contours of this wound, the perimeter raised, engorged and firm, jaggedly torn yet softly fleshy and smooth, stretching the length of his thumb. For some reason he thinks of her, their first night, exploring her, tracing her, now as then, eager but afraid to test the depth. Embarrassed by where his mind has taken him, yet glad to remember something, he brings his hands down and examines his fingers, surprisingly finding no trace of blood and no indication of pain.

Prone to banging his head he had come to think of it as an occupational hazard of been tall, a hazard which he didn't mind as he liked the job of been tall. It happened fairly often, open cupboards, some doorways, occasionally he would bang his head on a "mind your head" sign, though the irony would hardly ease the few seconds of white pain and the slight dizziness that followed. Never had there been any serious consequence such as winding up in hospital. Come to think of it, what is his name? Odd not to remember

An elderly couple distractingly stand on his right and come his way, their wait over, he sits up straight and moves his legs. He always did such things so very consciously and noticed he was always the one that seemed to give way, always looking for some sign of appreciation, a nod of the head, a "thanks", he would even settle for a wink. They passed and as usual he didn't get anything other then an imagined "cheers mate," and "what a nice boy."
"You're welcome."

The effort of imagined social interaction left him dizzy; his head lolled to the right, no-one looking; left, nothing. Everyone was preoccupied with waiting, none looking at him. He guessed they didn't want to be rude and stare at someone with a big gash on their forehead. Tired, blinking, his eyes unable to focus, he felt light but restricted. Turning his head right was more then his neck could handle alone and his whole torso had to accompany it. There were people, outlines soft and fuzzy, undefined, glowing so white facial features were only visible by the shadows they cast, everyone looked warm and tender, the light extremely bright, gently gathering about them. Pivoting himself on his arm he levered himself until he was sitting straight, wanting to find the source of this brilliant light, pondering the nature of light as he knew it, impossibly fast, a wave and a mass at the same time. This light seemed different, slower, the photons drunk and depressed, confused and diffused photons too lazy to bounce about as they should, preferring instead to gather at the first obstacle. He felt it gathering inside him, making him glow, feels so nice and warm, contented, serene and safe. His head, its weight gently carried by the light relaxed, his eyes slowly shut and he felt himself slipping backwards from the world.

I remember setting out to work, listening to my i-pod, mind racing as usual, thinking about a stream and the little bridge over it which takes me to the train station. The bridge is usually populated by scary youths drinking and making a lot of noise, young skinny aggressive trolls. I feel apprehensive just thinking about it, expecting they can smell my fear and anxious that they will expose me as the coward I am. What will I do if anything happens? run? fight for once? diffuse with some irrelevant comment which will snap them out of aggressive mode? no, that only works when a modicum of intelligence is present. Snap out of it! Nothing has ever happened, they always go quiet and make way, you were young once and used to hang out drinking disconnected from society. You are fearing nothing other then fear itself, pointless, stop it! Reaffirmed with myself I straighten up, renewed and fearless yet aware these thoughts may well return I increase the volume on my i-pod to max, hoping it will drown out my thoughts. I begin to think how silly I am when everything stops. I see blood everywhere, my blood, I try to speak but my voice is gone, all that arrives is a groan, a gurgled wail of grief, pain and blood.

A loud screech of tires forcibly jerks him out of his slumber, instinctively he flinches, head darts forward, his arms snap up in protection, eyes wide and alert; so loud It seemed to be right in front of him in the waiting room. Realizing it was a dream he calms down as best he can though he feels a great sense of unease, still dizzy, drunk courtesy of the delirious light, something he dreamt scares him, something he won't admit.

He looks right then left, no-one there. He knows behind him there is something, something crucial, something grotesque, he doesn't want to look but the light that has gathered about him has other ideas. He feels it lift him slightly, ever so softly, infinite points of contact with his body render any resistance futile, it is overwhelming, he doesn't want to look, he fights but the light is drunk and unreasonable. He closes his eyes in a last futile attempt at resistance, feels his head facing behind his seat, he doesn't want to see but what is there, he doesn't want to see but what is it, what is the light showing him, he opens his eyes.

Before him, arms outstretched sits a frozen man, his face on the verge of screaming, his body braced, pushed back in his seat, arms tense stretched out straight in front of him, his hands pure white from the pressure he is exerting at eleven and one o'clock on the steering wheel.

What the fuck? what? wanting answers he looks around but there is no-one else, just the frozen man and the light which has now gathered in great clouds around him, swirling, increasing in volume and intensity, still warm but not so gentle, like a sandstorm of light, building and building. It billows and blows, his clothes flapping, his hair blowing all over the place despite it's short length, it beats against his forehead releasing the pain locked in his wound, releasing the blood such a wound deserves, tinting the light red. The light pulls him to his feet, that in front of him swirls to his back and pushes him, he tries to resist but it is everywhere, every time he tries to stop or turn it shoves him forward like a jailer pushing a disobedient prisoner to his cell. Pushed onward, down a corridor, walls, ceiling and floor, in the distance a room from which he can hear a tone, a constant flat tone, a tapped crystal glass frozen in time.

At the door he offers his last resistance, arms out holding the door frame, bracing himself against the light. The light reaches out and swirls about his arms, jerking them down, a final shove at his back throws him into the room and he slaps down to the floor on his hands and knees. He turns his head to face the doctor, "Name?"
The nurse produces a travel-card, "Damien."
"Time?" enquires the doctor.
"Five thirty."
"Time of death; seventeen thirty."

On his hands and knees he finds out the time, on his hands and knees he finds out his name.
From the light I can see my blood is everywhere.