treatment number one;; parasite
“Good day everyone. How are you all?”
That was most of what he remembered hearing -- that voice seemed overly pleasant, and it rang and rang and rang in his ears, making him annoyed and irritable as he sat up in an uncomfortable white bed.
He felt antsy, like he wasn't supposed to be here -- of course he wasn't -- but this was a different feeling, one that actually made him feel nervous -- and he was Orihara Izaya; he was not supposed to feel nervous. He shifted out of the bed, throwing his legs over the edge, inhaling and looking down... and immediately noticing that one of his legs seemed to have lumps over it; but after flexing it a few times and finding no pain, he attributed it to some sort of odd vaccine they might have given him, and stood up. The door wasn't locked -- what a surprise -- weren't these kinds of places supposed to be locked up tight?
The hospital he had stayed at after being shot at in public, on a busy street, had been. The hallways were empty, unlike Ikebukuro's ER; there were no nurses tottering down the starch white walkways, and there were no visitors to see their ailing family members.
Ah, well -- it wasn't his problem, and he stepped out, that voice ringing in his ears still, the white gown dragging on him just a bit. God, he looked awkward -- and where was his knife, but he saw it on the table, next to the bed... and of course, the door slammed shut on him before he could get to it. And for whatever odd kind of reason, it wouldn't open back up when he tried to get in!
He hadn't seen any roommates -- he had been the only one occupying any of the four beds in the room, and he hadn't seen anyone else near him as he walked out. Maybe the computer near his bed could have helped him; pssh, he was too idiotic to think properly when he was in a panic, which he kind of was, right now. Maybe, he thought, stepping away from the door and trying to walk down the hallway, he would find someone he knew, someone that looked familiar and decently respectable to his own unique eye.
He failed to notice smacking into someone as he walked down the hall, but merely shrugged them off; their body felt warm, and he didn't want to come into contact with anybody that had some sort of fever. "Pardon," he grunted, quietly. His voice was monotone. He had no real need to socialize with anyone right now.
