crossmyheartandhope (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2019-05-28 11:08 pm
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2019-05-28 11:08 pm
Entry tags:
Memory 12: Poisonous
“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.”
The panel of instruments is making a strange noise somewhere to his right. A voice behind him, this one a man, says, “Weird how? I’m showing your vitals as normal.”
Hurricane swallows. “Just… kinda weird.”
The room is swimming, even though his eyes are closed. Everything is shifting, unsteady and strange. He has a pounding headache behind his eyes, and his stomach is churning like he ate something off, even though he skipped breakfast because he knew he had a session today.
“Do you need a minute?” says the man.
“He’s fine,” says Hurricane’s mother. “We’re behind schedule.”
When Hurricane opens his eyes, he finds a man looking down at him. He’s short and pudgy — balding. His eyes are concerned behind his thick, black glasses.
Hurricane pulls up a smile from somewhere. “S’cool,” he says. “Prep me.”
The man hums softly, considering.
“Dr. Yoshioka,” says Hurricane’s mother. “We have another procedure in thirty-five minutes.”
“Yes,” says Yoshioka, and steps away to the control panel. “Yes, of course.”
Hurricane closes his eyes again. The whole room really is moving, steady and rhythmic. He feels kind of seasick.
He wants to go lie down somewhere dark. He wants to pull the IV out of his arm and tap out before the second part of the procedure starts. The second part is always the worst.
“Are you ready for the shot?” says Yoshioka.
Hurricane nods — and it’s a terrible mistake. The motion sends the room spinning off its axis, and he groans and curls in on himself, waiting for it to pass. It doesn’t pass, and it keeps not passing, and he barely manages to lean over the arm of the chair before he’s retching.
Small favors — nothing comes up but water. Giving breakfast a miss on session days is the way to go, apparently.
But when he’s done he’s shaking a little, and the spinning hasn’t stopped, and he doesn’t want to open his eyes because he’s afraid it’s going to get worse.
He opens his eyes, anyway.
“Sorry,” he croaks.
“It’s fine,” says Yoshioka.
Hurricane’s mother says nothing. She’s busy reaching for the button that sparks the comms to life.
The voice that comes in response is calm and level, a woman’s voice. It says, “We copy, lab 22C. What’s your status?”
“I’m going to need janitorial on site,” says Hurricane’s mother.
“Setback?” says the woman on the comms.
“Minor,” says Hurricane’s mother.
“Do you need a schedule adjustment?” says the voice. “Dr. Wada can take some of your afternoon procedures.”
“It’s fine.”
“You have twenty-eight minutes until incoming,” says the voice.
“I’m well aware,” says Hurricane’s mother, and cuts the comm.
Hurricane’s eyes skitter away as she turns to face him. He’s aware of details in the periphery: the way her lips are a narrow line of displeasure. Her even stare, flat and unforgiving. The smudge of grease on her lab coat.
“Sorry,” Hurricane says again, quieter than before.
“Have you given him the shot yet?” says Hurricane’s mother, to Yoshioka.
“Perhaps we ought to wait a minute or two,” Yoshioka starts to say, but Hurricane’s mother is moving already. She sweeps to the stainless steel tray that stands beside the chair, and she rolls gloves onto both of her hands. She selects the syringe and uncaps it, deliberate and matter-of-fact.
“It’s cool,” says Hurricane. “I’m cool. Let’s do this.”
Hurricane’s mother swabs his arm with detached efficiency, and the needle bites into the skin without warning.
The pain is shivery and cold, hardly anything at all.
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.”
The panel of instruments is making a strange noise somewhere to his right. A voice behind him, this one a man, says, “Weird how? I’m showing your vitals as normal.”
Hurricane swallows. “Just… kinda weird.”
The room is swimming, even though his eyes are closed. Everything is shifting, unsteady and strange. He has a pounding headache behind his eyes, and his stomach is churning like he ate something off, even though he skipped breakfast because he knew he had a session today.
“Do you need a minute?” says the man.
“He’s fine,” says Hurricane’s mother. “We’re behind schedule.”
When Hurricane opens his eyes, he finds a man looking down at him. He’s short and pudgy — balding. His eyes are concerned behind his thick, black glasses.
Hurricane pulls up a smile from somewhere. “S’cool,” he says. “Prep me.”
The man hums softly, considering.
“Dr. Yoshioka,” says Hurricane’s mother. “We have another procedure in thirty-five minutes.”
“Yes,” says Yoshioka, and steps away to the control panel. “Yes, of course.”
Hurricane closes his eyes again. The whole room really is moving, steady and rhythmic. He feels kind of seasick.
He wants to go lie down somewhere dark. He wants to pull the IV out of his arm and tap out before the second part of the procedure starts. The second part is always the worst.
“Are you ready for the shot?” says Yoshioka.
Hurricane nods — and it’s a terrible mistake. The motion sends the room spinning off its axis, and he groans and curls in on himself, waiting for it to pass. It doesn’t pass, and it keeps not passing, and he barely manages to lean over the arm of the chair before he’s retching.
Small favors — nothing comes up but water. Giving breakfast a miss on session days is the way to go, apparently.
But when he’s done he’s shaking a little, and the spinning hasn’t stopped, and he doesn’t want to open his eyes because he’s afraid it’s going to get worse.
He opens his eyes, anyway.
“Sorry,” he croaks.
“It’s fine,” says Yoshioka.
Hurricane’s mother says nothing. She’s busy reaching for the button that sparks the comms to life.
The voice that comes in response is calm and level, a woman’s voice. It says, “We copy, lab 22C. What’s your status?”
“I’m going to need janitorial on site,” says Hurricane’s mother.
“Setback?” says the woman on the comms.
“Minor,” says Hurricane’s mother.
“Do you need a schedule adjustment?” says the voice. “Dr. Wada can take some of your afternoon procedures.”
“It’s fine.”
“You have twenty-eight minutes until incoming,” says the voice.
“I’m well aware,” says Hurricane’s mother, and cuts the comm.
Hurricane’s eyes skitter away as she turns to face him. He’s aware of details in the periphery: the way her lips are a narrow line of displeasure. Her even stare, flat and unforgiving. The smudge of grease on her lab coat.
“Sorry,” Hurricane says again, quieter than before.
“Have you given him the shot yet?” says Hurricane’s mother, to Yoshioka.
“Perhaps we ought to wait a minute or two,” Yoshioka starts to say, but Hurricane’s mother is moving already. She sweeps to the stainless steel tray that stands beside the chair, and she rolls gloves onto both of her hands. She selects the syringe and uncaps it, deliberate and matter-of-fact.
“It’s cool,” says Hurricane. “I’m cool. Let’s do this.”
Hurricane’s mother swabs his arm with detached efficiency, and the needle bites into the skin without warning.
The pain is shivery and cold, hardly anything at all.