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Memory 12: Poisonous
May. 28th, 2019 11:08 pm“M’gonna puke,” says Hurricane.
His head is tipped back against the metal of the chair, and he’s staring up at the ceiling. It’s smooth and gleaming white, all stringent sci-fi sleek. There’s exposed wiring in the corner, and thicker cables leading up from the chair where he sits. Half a dozen different sensors blink on and off.
It would be cool, if he hadn’t been in this room every other day for a month. It would be cool, if he didn’t feel like someone had just gotten done scrambling him with a cake mixer.
“You won’t,” says a woman’s voice from a short distance away. She sounds clipped and disinterested, and when he turns to look, she’s standing over one of the panels of instruments against the wall, inputting something into the keyboard there. She’s tall and narrow, no softness to her features; behind her glasses, her eyes are focused.
Now that he can see her, though, he can see the IV bag, too. The liquid is thick and cold, and it glows like a white t-shirt under a UV light. The tube is pouring it slowly into his arm, and he feels his stomach give another lurch at the visual.
He closes his eyes and presses his lips together — breathes through his nose.
“For real, ma,” he says, when he thinks he can talk again. “I feel kinda weird.”
( Continue )
His head is tipped back against the metal of the chair, and he’s staring up at the ceiling. It’s smooth and gleaming white, all stringent sci-fi sleek. There’s exposed wiring in the corner, and thicker cables leading up from the chair where he sits. Half a dozen different sensors blink on and off.
It would be cool, if he hadn’t been in this room every other day for a month. It would be cool, if he didn’t feel like someone had just gotten done scrambling him with a cake mixer.
“You won’t,” says a woman’s voice from a short distance away. She sounds clipped and disinterested, and when he turns to look, she’s standing over one of the panels of instruments against the wall, inputting something into the keyboard there. She’s tall and narrow, no softness to her features; behind her glasses, her eyes are focused.
Now that he can see her, though, he can see the IV bag, too. The liquid is thick and cold, and it glows like a white t-shirt under a UV light. The tube is pouring it slowly into his arm, and he feels his stomach give another lurch at the visual.
He closes his eyes and presses his lips together — breathes through his nose.
“For real, ma,” he says, when he thinks he can talk again. “I feel kinda weird.”
( Continue )
