No. 8: “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier.”
Overcrowded ER | “It’s all for nothing.”
(Turns out, I may have exaggerated, qhen I said, that everyday can stand for its own. I'm not so sure anymore, sorry.)
(Story starts here if you like) previous
An irregual, but still kind of constant beaping sound, like a child playing with a keyboard, pressing down just one key in an unsteady rhythym. Some obstacle in his face, over his mouth and nose.
Breaths came in puffs, it was hard. Mostly because every fibre of him felt like he had an all-body-workout, that lasted days. And his chest hurt even more. The firstly funny sound, got disturbingly louder and hectic, the more alert he got. His eyes moved behind closed lids and only slowly rearranged with the world, when he tried to open them. Everything was blurry, a big rim just in front came into focus. It was an oxygen mask, his tired mind reasoned. The unpleasant fleeling of being strung up was a distant memory, but the heavyness in his arms and legs was very present.
He was laying down. Soft sheets. The cuffs were gone. But he couldn't move, even if he wanted to. He was just exhausted and in pain. His head slowly moved. He was in a nice room. 'Hospital?' A silent question in his mind, yet he didn't know why he should be in one, despite, that he was feeling like crap.
That disturbing unsteady sound really annoyed him. Breathing was so hard, he just wanted one releaving deep breath. But he didn't even finish his attempt of a real inhale, when pain exploded inside his torso. That frantic beaping took up a notch and some shrill alarms screamed in his ears, as he closed his eyes to fight the urging pain. Sweat summond on his forehead, he couldn't slow the tiny desperated puffs. Panic flared up. Everything was too tight.
A steadying hand on his shoulder. "Shhh, hummingbird. Shhh, I got you." Warmth spreaded from his right arm through the IV, he hadn't even noticed. The cacophony of sounds slowed, went down, when blackness pulled him under again.
Next time he reached the surface, his hands jerked. The frantic beaping was back. But he was still caught in a haze. A warm presence took hold of his right hand, slightly squeezing. It was more a reflex, than a conscious reaction to squeeze back. It was grounding, it felt real in his fictional fog, he was floating in. That jumbling sound slowed, wasn't screaming at him this bad anymore. The mask in his face was gone, he realised, before he actually saw. An uncomfortable sensation inside his nose, it tickled. But the tickling was the best part, his body was experiencing right now. Everything was sour, his chest was the worst. A big palm brushed through his hair. He felt save. A lingering presence by his side. It was more a feeling, than really knowing, that someone was there, despite that hand holding his own. Words were hovering around him and some finally making sense. The voice, that was producing them was soft, steady, rhymic. It sounded like someone was reading a poem to him. But most of it got lost in translation.
Let the worst parts only be a dream,
There's nothing I can do but scream.
I plea to make me whole, I may not again folder.
I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier."
Slowly Sam resurfaced and his eyes followed his command to open after a few fruitless attempts.
His hand was gently squeezed again. Glazy and tired eyes wandered towards where that voice came from.
"I'm sorry, my little hummingbird." A tired blink, Sam's vision came into focus only slowly.
"You should have told me, that you have a heart condition." The voice was sincier, there was regret dripping out of his words. Sam was confused, he blinked a few times, not understanding what had happened. His head shook on its own in a tiny tired motion.
"Wha... " His raspy voice craked. He swallowed painfully. "I don't." Only a slight whisper. He felt as weak, as he sounded.
That damn annyoing sound was apparently his heartbeat. It was unsteady, he could tell.
"Hospital?" His eyes searched the room, looked at all kind of equipment beside his bed. But the room was too fancy, not enough eggshell color, too warm and cosy.
The other one shook his head slightly, then locking with his tired eyes. "Couldn't bring you to an overcrouded ER, could I?" His voice was sincere, the words sounded like he actually was worried about Sam's heath, not the possiblity of being caught. "You a doc?"
Sam was uncomfortable, too tired to analyse whatever the man had said or indenteded to say, or how. There was only a slight nod to his last question, or so he believed to have seen under his half closed eyes.
Everything hurt, he tried to rearrange his position a bit. A new, sharp pain exploded inside his chest, spreading from the middle right back to his spin. A painful sound and a sharp inhale just happened on their own, making it even worse. A firm, but gentil hand pressed him down by his shoulder. Dots flickered in his vision. "I'm so sorry. I believe I cracked some of your ribs." The man was looking away, shamefully, until his eyes came back, looking down at Sam.
'Really? First he snatched him, bound him, drugged him, fucking electricuted him and NOW he was sorry, because he actually hurt him?' Sam was more than confused. His head was spinning, these thoughts bumping in, but he was too exhausted to acknowlege them. He was too weak, to get angry. And he really didn't understand, what was happening. The disturbing sound had slowed down again, while warmth spread throughout him.
