White Wide World

Lonley World

Hospitals have never been my thing. Not since my mom died. Hospitals have always seemed so fictional to me. Everything about them makes my blood run cold. Maybe it's the smell of the disinfecting spray, or maybe it's just the constant smell of death that bothers me. I think it might be a mix of all of them. All the white walls give me the fucking creeps. Funny how the color white, which some don't even consider a color, can creep me out that much. All hospitals try to be as homey as possible, but who are they kidding? Everybody knows it's a hospital—the couches and fancy flowers don't fool anybody. Yeah they cure some people every once in a while, but there sure as hell die a lot too. What's the point in getting cured when you know you're going to end up here anyway? Why not just get it over with?

Blood doesn't bother me anymore. I've had way too much of it on my own hands to care. Drawing blood is my job. Some job that is. I walk down the halls of the hospital and it's dead quiet. Even though it's filled with people, it still feels empty. I guess that's what disease can do to you. It leaves you an empty shell of yourself. It turns you into something you're not, something you don't want to be, something you don't want anybody to see. In here, death comes an inch closer; it can scare any grown man. It scares the shit out of me too.

The white halls are miles long and the rooms are filled- filled with all sorts of people with all sorts of diseases and all sorts of problems. This hospital is bigger than normal, way bigger than normal.

I find it hard to figure out which way to go every time a new turn comes. Not even the staff can find their way around. When I finally arrive at the rehab department, I see my old man sleeping in an empty white room. He's piss drunk once again. This time he ended up in the hospital, luckily. Then I won't have to knock him out because he's on a rampage. Fortunately, I'm now at a size where I can take him out. As a child I've taken more beatings from him than I care to remember. Now I'm afraid if I hit him too hard he won't wake up again afterwards. My old man has always had a passion for Martinis. Well, his kind of Martini anyway. It consists of gin. Yes, you heard right, straight gin. Gin that he likes to call a dry Martini, shaken not stirred. Just picture my old man walking around shaking a gin bottle, it isn't a sight for soar eyes. My dear old man likes to feel classy even though he has nothing to be classy about. He drinks his so-called Martini dry, and when I say dry I mean dry-no glass, no olives, no white wine, just the gin. If he's low on money, he just likes to buy a bottle of vodka and pour it into the gin bottle.

"He'll be unconscious for quite a while." A nurse interrupts my train of thoughts with this so-called informative news. I like to call them "no shit" news. I just nod, crossing my arms and hooking them under my armpits.

"We will also be keeping him here until he's clean." I snort at that statement. Sure, they can try to get him clean all they want, it just won't happen.

"Sure, whatever you think is necessary," I say in my rough voice. I turn to the nurse. For a short while, I consider intimidating her just to get her to leave, but I catch a glimpse of something on the other side of the hall: a woman lying on a bed in a corpse-like position with her hands folded on her stomach, her legs straight under the blanket. I only see her in profile, but her plump lips, straight nose and full lashes draw me in. Her long icy blonde hair is spread out like a halo around her head.

"Who's that?" I ask the young, clearly dyed blonde nurse. She turns her head and wrinkles her nose while chewing noisily on her gum, with her mouth open I might add. It's not only very uncaring, it's fucking rude as well. The gum lets out a squeaking noise every time she chews down on it. I can feel myself get more and more agitated every time she bites down on the small piece of gum.