Callahan of Maples

A/N: Hello everyone! I'm pleased to share something new with you all after being absent for so long. This piece was a short story I wrote for my Creative Writing course. It hasn't really been edited, so let me know about mistakes/ continuity errors. Carlisle Callahan is a character I've been playing around with for a new story, so let me know what you think of him as he may be making a separate appearance in a different time period soon! The character of Newton Leonardo Rivalle belongs to my friend, Kat, as we wrote our pieces to overlap a bit :-)  See you around!

Callahan of Maples

I like to remember my wife when I don't want to sleep. Her warmth, her softness, the way she would whisper my name before she kissed me. When I think of my wife, I remember the delicate skin of her throat, her wide eyes as I held her down. I truly loved that woman.

The nurses are doing their rounds again. Their heels snap against the wood in a steady rhythm as they file, now two by two, I am certain, down the corridor. I had lain awake all night, still as a corpse with one starched sheet pulled up to my chin, waiting. Their sedatives hadn't lasted as long as usual- either Doctor Fitzgerald was drunk again or Nurse Pauline was getting sloppy.

       I stare at the window across from my bed, challenging the daylight with unblinking eyes. There are no curtains- that way I can't strangle myself, the nurses whisper to one another- so the sun's rays are free to flick from wall to wall as the day begins. Judging by the placement of the shadows on the floor, I have exactly two and a half minutes before Nurse Pauline comes to wake me and force a new drug down my throat. She's recently become theatrical with her placement of my medicines, a crushed green pill stirred into my oatmeal or a thin syrup in my morning orange juice. I would applaud her with utmost sarcasm if I wasn't secretly impressed. The woman is very the definition of a shrew, but she could usually be counted upon to be silent when she treated me.

       The door opens with a swish and the light flicks on behind me, illuminating blue walls the shade of my pills and the stark white of my bedding. Nurse Pauline bustles in, flanked by two strong orderlies, men far bigger than I, and pushes her cart to my bedside. The steel squeaks as she takes a tray from one of cupboards, placing it across my lap while the orderlies help me sit up.

"And how are we feeling today, Mr. Callahan?" she asks brusquely, whipping the napkin from the tray and tucking it into my nightshirt.

I glance down at my breakfast. Today is Wednesday, so it's a small pile of scrambled eggs, three sausage links, a sliver of grapefruit, and two pieces of dry toast. Fattening luxuries like butter, sugar, cream, or coffee are confined to every other weekend or a national holiday in the Maples Building. I've heard, however, that you're allowed whatever meal you'd like if you're going to be released from a more forgiving ward- or if they decide to get rid of you.

"Mr. Callahan?" she presses.

I seize my fork and dig into everything at once. I watch as a wrinkle forms between her eyebrows, her distaste plain.

"I'm fine," I say around a mouthful of eggs, "because that's what you all want me to say, isn't it?" The wrinkle deepens and a frown puckers the corner of her mouth. She sets a tall glass of orange juice before me and I probe my eggs with my tongue. Yes, definitely a slight sweetness there. "Medicine in my eggs today? How clever."

"Doctor Fitzgerald insisted," she replies. I gulp down the juice and swipe at my lips with my napkin.

"Doctor Fitzgerald," I say, throwing down my fork, "is a morbid alcoholic. I take his judgement with a grain of salt."