Steele's driving, August's snoring in the back seat, and I'm bored. Time for a post.
We're headed down to Louisiana, some shady place about a half hour out from New Orleans, to deliver a package to a shaman. He's apparently a fortuneteller, but can do much more than just that. I've always been a bit wary of those types - I am a woman of science, after all. At the same time, ever since all this hit me all those years ago, I've become more open to it. But of course, tolerance and openness doesn't mean comfort. Nonetheless, I look forward to meeting him, even if he asked for...ah, I can't say. But it's definitely not a Bag of Infinite Holding or anything exciting like that.
The drive's been uneventful so far, almost a bit too peaceful. That always makes me nervous, something usually goes wrong by now. We stop too fast at a stoplight and my glasses fly off and crack against the dashboard, or we get into an argument, or something. But no, nothing this time. I'm getting a bit hungry, though, so I might see if we want to go to one of those 24-hour diners and grab something.
I can't wait to get this delivery over with so we can get a little free time. I've never been to New Orleans, but Steele tells me it's a good time. We'll see.
Showing posts with label Doc. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Doc. Show all posts
Thursday, 23 February 2012
Sunday, 12 February 2012
-Doc- Safety, Sanity
Things have been so odd lately. August and I were just hanging out and playing cards, and I realized that I haven't felt this safe, relaxed, and comfortable in a long while. Even when I'm not feeding my addiction, my waking hours are quite enjoyable. However, they're even better when I am. I do get a bit talkative and...nostalgic, at times, but it could be worse. It could be so, so much worse.
I haven't been allowed to leave on delivery in awhile (or leave the House alone for extended amounts of time period), but my mental prognosis has been looking better. Not writing on any walls, certainly not in my own blood. (Okay, the unicorn fighting a t-rex I drew on my office wall in dry erase pen doesn't count, I was just bored that time.) Not cutting off any limbs, not hearing voices I shouldn't be, not gibbering to the walls like a lunatic. Just having nightmares of wicked things crawling through my head and waking up standing in the middle of the kitchen, or trying to open the back door. I usually go outside to get some air, it helps. Honestly, I think it's just leftover stress from the House going crazy and taking me with it; the dreams and sleepwalking have been tapering off since then. Haven't been seeing Him lately, so I must have snapped back into my old way of things, slipped into that induced complacency that kept me somewhat sane for so long.
I've missed sanity. I've slipped out of it far too many times before, and it's never easy to crawl back in. I like to compare it to falling out of a helicopter and having to grab on to one of its legs, then pull yourself back in before you fall off for good. Of course, if you can't grab on, there may be someone there to catch you, but it may not be who you want it to be. That someone might whisk you away with loving intent, and due to...circumstances, that intent becomes purely cruel and sadistic. Needles carrying an endless supply of drowsy thoughtlessness. Yelling. Abuse. You may call me a biased loon, but I can assure you that it truly was that bad. The Moon-Headed Shadow, as we patients came to call Him, began to...express himself through the hospital personnel. From the doctors and psychiatrists all the way down to the nursing assistants. Not all the hospital staff succumbed to His influence and became worse than the patients they were in charge of, however: one of the younger nurses discovered my love of Kurt Vonnegut. On slow days, she'd read to me for hours while I sat grinning and drooling. My favorite novel used to be Slaughterhouse-Five before she read it to me so much that I'd feel my mind start to frost over the moment she uttered the opening words. Can't really say I can bear to read it anymore, or even look at the cover: in retrospect, perhaps she HAD fallen to His influence, and that was her way of cementing me in my madness.
And all that can end it is being carried away in flames by a pair of compassionate hands, while the rest of it, all the others like you and your torturers, burn to ash. Then it's down to three: you, your savior, and the Moon-Headed Shadow looking on with an eyeless, judging stare. And so you're whisked away again with equally loving intent, but this time, to find a true sanctuary waiting in a dingy, smoke-filled apartment.
...you know, sitting around thinking about all of this probably isn't good for me. I need something to do: I'm think I'll talk to Steele about getting the hell out of here for awhile, I'm sure he'd be down for that. Spence will probably demand I be...more adequately supervised, just as a precaution, but we can find something that'll work. Maybe August's delivery? I don't know yet.
I haven't been allowed to leave on delivery in awhile (or leave the House alone for extended amounts of time period), but my mental prognosis has been looking better. Not writing on any walls, certainly not in my own blood. (Okay, the unicorn fighting a t-rex I drew on my office wall in dry erase pen doesn't count, I was just bored that time.) Not cutting off any limbs, not hearing voices I shouldn't be, not gibbering to the walls like a lunatic. Just having nightmares of wicked things crawling through my head and waking up standing in the middle of the kitchen, or trying to open the back door. I usually go outside to get some air, it helps. Honestly, I think it's just leftover stress from the House going crazy and taking me with it; the dreams and sleepwalking have been tapering off since then. Haven't been seeing Him lately, so I must have snapped back into my old way of things, slipped into that induced complacency that kept me somewhat sane for so long.
I've missed sanity. I've slipped out of it far too many times before, and it's never easy to crawl back in. I like to compare it to falling out of a helicopter and having to grab on to one of its legs, then pull yourself back in before you fall off for good. Of course, if you can't grab on, there may be someone there to catch you, but it may not be who you want it to be. That someone might whisk you away with loving intent, and due to...circumstances, that intent becomes purely cruel and sadistic. Needles carrying an endless supply of drowsy thoughtlessness. Yelling. Abuse. You may call me a biased loon, but I can assure you that it truly was that bad. The Moon-Headed Shadow, as we patients came to call Him, began to...express himself through the hospital personnel. From the doctors and psychiatrists all the way down to the nursing assistants. Not all the hospital staff succumbed to His influence and became worse than the patients they were in charge of, however: one of the younger nurses discovered my love of Kurt Vonnegut. On slow days, she'd read to me for hours while I sat grinning and drooling. My favorite novel used to be Slaughterhouse-Five before she read it to me so much that I'd feel my mind start to frost over the moment she uttered the opening words. Can't really say I can bear to read it anymore, or even look at the cover: in retrospect, perhaps she HAD fallen to His influence, and that was her way of cementing me in my madness.
And all that can end it is being carried away in flames by a pair of compassionate hands, while the rest of it, all the others like you and your torturers, burn to ash. Then it's down to three: you, your savior, and the Moon-Headed Shadow looking on with an eyeless, judging stare. And so you're whisked away again with equally loving intent, but this time, to find a true sanctuary waiting in a dingy, smoke-filled apartment.
...you know, sitting around thinking about all of this probably isn't good for me. I need something to do: I'm think I'll talk to Steele about getting the hell out of here for awhile, I'm sure he'd be down for that. Spence will probably demand I be...more adequately supervised, just as a precaution, but we can find something that'll work. Maybe August's delivery? I don't know yet.
Monday, 5 December 2011
-Doc- Whisperings
Something's not right. Something hasn't BEEN right. I haven't felt right and I know that things are not right.
I keep hearing things in the walls. The House is speaking, shifting, groaning like a great beast that's waking up from a long nap. Dr. Rivers says he can't hear the sounds (Or, well, more like he gave me a funny look when I asked about it), but he's on such a cocktail of painkillers, I envy him for being unable to hear. But I have to stay sober. I have to take care of everyone. Amanda is feeling better. Dr. Rivers will feel better soon. Alex will feel better. August looks pale, but he'll be okay. Boss will be okay. Steele is his usual self. Todd is Todd. Sam is Sam. Everyone will be okay.
There's just this constant tingling on the back of my neck, and occasionally, I see an unearthly shadow from just around a corner and my hair stands on end. I want to scream, even right now. August tells me I'm not getting enough sleep, but my god, the things I SEE when I shut my eyes...the coyotes, the raccoons, once stuffed away neatly into their bags, carefully preserved in formaldehyde, ripping open their plastic prisons to shamble across the floor on their mutilated limbs. Dozens of rats burst from mason jars, splattering sick fluid across the walls and floor, all crawling towards me, staring right at me with those dead, whitish-blue eyes. I almost fear blinking. I fear blinking and I fear sound and I fear silence and I fear the lights in the ceiling and the shadows on the floor. I want to shut myself away deep in the basement until this all blows over, but the architecture keeps shifting, and I gaze down those dark and unfamiliar corridors and it's as if they will swallow my mind, leaving my body with its mouth gaping open, empty and unsure. All I can do is stare until I realize I have been staring, then continue on with my business.
I am still clean. No drugs. None at all, this is all just me, me, me. I don't know why this is happening. Why is this happening? I don't feel well, I'm going to get a glass of water and try to forget that the world is spinning around me and how much my head throbs.
The mice have gone silent. They never go silent, I can always hear them, but they're quiet. I wonder if they all died. What a fucking pity, I wanted to cut all their tiny hearts out and see what they had hidden in their soft little bellies.
I keep hearing things in the walls. The House is speaking, shifting, groaning like a great beast that's waking up from a long nap. Dr. Rivers says he can't hear the sounds (Or, well, more like he gave me a funny look when I asked about it), but he's on such a cocktail of painkillers, I envy him for being unable to hear. But I have to stay sober. I have to take care of everyone. Amanda is feeling better. Dr. Rivers will feel better soon. Alex will feel better. August looks pale, but he'll be okay. Boss will be okay. Steele is his usual self. Todd is Todd. Sam is Sam. Everyone will be okay.
There's just this constant tingling on the back of my neck, and occasionally, I see an unearthly shadow from just around a corner and my hair stands on end. I want to scream, even right now. August tells me I'm not getting enough sleep, but my god, the things I SEE when I shut my eyes...the coyotes, the raccoons, once stuffed away neatly into their bags, carefully preserved in formaldehyde, ripping open their plastic prisons to shamble across the floor on their mutilated limbs. Dozens of rats burst from mason jars, splattering sick fluid across the walls and floor, all crawling towards me, staring right at me with those dead, whitish-blue eyes. I almost fear blinking. I fear blinking and I fear sound and I fear silence and I fear the lights in the ceiling and the shadows on the floor. I want to shut myself away deep in the basement until this all blows over, but the architecture keeps shifting, and I gaze down those dark and unfamiliar corridors and it's as if they will swallow my mind, leaving my body with its mouth gaping open, empty and unsure. All I can do is stare until I realize I have been staring, then continue on with my business.
I am still clean. No drugs. None at all, this is all just me, me, me. I don't know why this is happening. Why is this happening? I don't feel well, I'm going to get a glass of water and try to forget that the world is spinning around me and how much my head throbs.
The mice have gone silent. They never go silent, I can always hear them, but they're quiet. I wonder if they all died. What a fucking pity, I wanted to cut all their tiny hearts out and see what they had hidden in their soft little bellies.
Sunday, 7 August 2011
-Doc- House Calls
It’s difficult to recall the last time I did a solo delivery. I’m about half a day from my destination now: I’m driving, but in my attempt to take a shortcut through a city, I’ve hit a construction zone. Stop and go, you know the drill, so I have to finish this before I can actually get out of here. I don’t think I’ll be able to communicate again until I’ve finished this job. If you’re wondering why this is so urgent, I received a private delivery request from a sick teenager whose father will not let her leave the house. Three guesses why. I usually avoid doing house calls, but this seems like a different sort of situation. The father has agreed to let me examine her, so I’m hurrying over there before he changes his mind, or before the girl's condition worsens.
The road’s been eerily peaceful, even as I’ve driven past crop fields where a proxy could jump out at any moment. I’m glad I got the radio in this thing replaced; honestly, I’m terrified I’ll start hearing things if all I have to listen to is the car's rumbling. Though to be honest, it couldn't be as bad as the things I hear as I'm falling asleep in the basement.
Take care, everyone. I left on very short notice, so please feel free to use my medical supplies as you need them. Go into the basement (mind the first step), turn left once you’re down the stairs, second room on the right. I’ll ask that you use them ONLY as needed: if I see that all the narcotics have been swiped when I get back, I better see you all half-dead and bleeding everywhere or I’ll make everyone pay for them twice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)