Better You Than Me
My uncle has threatened to show some of my writing to a published author friend of his. However, since most of my writing up to this point has been fanfiction, I decided to try my hand at writing something that doesn't involve ninjas or death gods. So, without further ado, here's my first non-anime related short story in almost ten years...Any opinions?
Better You Than Me
The waiting room of the intensive care unit had a strange, hushed feel to it, not unlike a funeral home, a comparison most of the waiting room’s current occupants most likely did not want to make. They sat in groups, some in shocked silence, others damp-eyed, holding onto each other for comfort. A television was bolted into a corner, the afternoon’s soap operas held some spellbound, manufactured grief drowning out the real.
The young woman found herself watching them instead of the television, wondering what they had been doing before their phones had rung or a solemn person had come to the door. Sometimes, it was easy to guess; the older, middle-aged woman in worn red plaid flannel pajamas, with her feet stuffed hastily into a pair of unlaced tennis shoes had been dreaming peacefully before the shrill ring of her phone had shattered the quiet, the young man in a rumpled charcoal-gray business suit, his wildly patterned paisley tie askew, had been at work, or perhaps in a meeting when his secretary had tapped quietly on the door. A pair of wide-eyed children, still in school clothes, backpacks at their feet, a postal worker in regulation uniform, she wove stories around their appearance, imagining their reactions when the news had reached them. She knew exactly where she had been when the phone had rung and her reaction to her mother’s quiet, shaking voice, but preferred not to think about it. It was much easier to think about the room filled with miserable strangers instead.
She shifted in her seat and her eyes turned towards the set of metal doors that led into the room. Periodically, they would swing open and admit another group of frantic people. They would join the waiting group, new partners in perdition. At the moment, the doors were shut, the bustle and noise of the hospital hushed. It was as though they were in another world, detached from the happy, laughing people laden down with balloons and flowers, going to see a new baby or a friend on the mend.
On the television screen, Susan Lucci emoted; in the waiting room, the woman in her pajamas began crying again, loud hiccupping sobs that were quickly smothered into the shoulder of a friend.
A different set of double doors opened into the ICU ward itself and the young woman’s attention was caught as they swung forward with a pneumatic wheeze. Her mother stepped out, clutching to a paperback book as though it were a lifeline.
Her mother nodded and the young woman stood, her stomach going queasy, her hands clammy. It was her turn now, and the thought filled her with trepidation. She had clung to the illusion that she was merely an observer in the waiting room, a narrator in a story she would write some day, but she could not keep up the illusion once she stepped inside those doors.
She wished, for the hundredth time it seemed, that she could shut her emotions off at will, that she would feel nothing. But the feelings did not abate as she stepped past her mother and walked into the heart of the ICU.
She paused briefly to wash her hands before she went into the glass-enclosed room, skirting around various beeping and humming machines to get to the single chair that sat near the head of the bed. She kept her eyes firmly on the worn linoleum floor, taking a few precious moments to prepare herself before she looked up. When she did, she had to suppress a little cry of horror. Even after all this time, a week had passed, the sight of her father in the hospital bed, bruised, broken and held together by staples and bolts like some sort of Frankenstein’s monster, cables snaking in and out of his body, forcing it to live, it still had the power to render her nearly hysterical with grief.
Gone was the man who was always ready with a slightly improper joke, the man who always told her how proud he was of whatever she was doing, he was gone and in his place was this…thing. It lived, in a way, but it was not her father. She continually found herself wishing he would sit up, pull out the cords and laugh at her, another one of his terribly inappropriate jests revealed. She vowed not to yell at him when he did, because she would be so grateful that he was okay. But he didn’t move and he didn’t laugh. She didn’t have the chance to magnanimously forgive him.
Down the hallway, a shrill alarm went off, almost immediately an intercom sputtered to life, calling a code. Nurses ran past the room, one of them pushing a blue cart. The young woman rose from her seat and danced around the machines again to stand in the doorway. The nurses had instructed her a week ago not to leave the room when a code was called, but she saw no harm in standing by the door. She watched as a crying woman was held back by an orderly, as nurses and doctors rushed by. There were several minutes of frantic activity, then nothing. The woman was hysterical as a doctor came out to talk to her. Someone was leaving ICU today. The young woman shivered and went back to her seat, not able to suppress a small feeling of relief, “better you than me”, echoing in her mind.
Better You Than Me
The waiting room of the intensive care unit had a strange, hushed feel to it, not unlike a funeral home, a comparison most of the waiting room’s current occupants most likely did not want to make. They sat in groups, some in shocked silence, others damp-eyed, holding onto each other for comfort. A television was bolted into a corner, the afternoon’s soap operas held some spellbound, manufactured grief drowning out the real.
The young woman found herself watching them instead of the television, wondering what they had been doing before their phones had rung or a solemn person had come to the door. Sometimes, it was easy to guess; the older, middle-aged woman in worn red plaid flannel pajamas, with her feet stuffed hastily into a pair of unlaced tennis shoes had been dreaming peacefully before the shrill ring of her phone had shattered the quiet, the young man in a rumpled charcoal-gray business suit, his wildly patterned paisley tie askew, had been at work, or perhaps in a meeting when his secretary had tapped quietly on the door. A pair of wide-eyed children, still in school clothes, backpacks at their feet, a postal worker in regulation uniform, she wove stories around their appearance, imagining their reactions when the news had reached them. She knew exactly where she had been when the phone had rung and her reaction to her mother’s quiet, shaking voice, but preferred not to think about it. It was much easier to think about the room filled with miserable strangers instead.
She shifted in her seat and her eyes turned towards the set of metal doors that led into the room. Periodically, they would swing open and admit another group of frantic people. They would join the waiting group, new partners in perdition. At the moment, the doors were shut, the bustle and noise of the hospital hushed. It was as though they were in another world, detached from the happy, laughing people laden down with balloons and flowers, going to see a new baby or a friend on the mend.
On the television screen, Susan Lucci emoted; in the waiting room, the woman in her pajamas began crying again, loud hiccupping sobs that were quickly smothered into the shoulder of a friend.
A different set of double doors opened into the ICU ward itself and the young woman’s attention was caught as they swung forward with a pneumatic wheeze. Her mother stepped out, clutching to a paperback book as though it were a lifeline.
Her mother nodded and the young woman stood, her stomach going queasy, her hands clammy. It was her turn now, and the thought filled her with trepidation. She had clung to the illusion that she was merely an observer in the waiting room, a narrator in a story she would write some day, but she could not keep up the illusion once she stepped inside those doors.
She wished, for the hundredth time it seemed, that she could shut her emotions off at will, that she would feel nothing. But the feelings did not abate as she stepped past her mother and walked into the heart of the ICU.
She paused briefly to wash her hands before she went into the glass-enclosed room, skirting around various beeping and humming machines to get to the single chair that sat near the head of the bed. She kept her eyes firmly on the worn linoleum floor, taking a few precious moments to prepare herself before she looked up. When she did, she had to suppress a little cry of horror. Even after all this time, a week had passed, the sight of her father in the hospital bed, bruised, broken and held together by staples and bolts like some sort of Frankenstein’s monster, cables snaking in and out of his body, forcing it to live, it still had the power to render her nearly hysterical with grief.
Gone was the man who was always ready with a slightly improper joke, the man who always told her how proud he was of whatever she was doing, he was gone and in his place was this…thing. It lived, in a way, but it was not her father. She continually found herself wishing he would sit up, pull out the cords and laugh at her, another one of his terribly inappropriate jests revealed. She vowed not to yell at him when he did, because she would be so grateful that he was okay. But he didn’t move and he didn’t laugh. She didn’t have the chance to magnanimously forgive him.
Down the hallway, a shrill alarm went off, almost immediately an intercom sputtered to life, calling a code. Nurses ran past the room, one of them pushing a blue cart. The young woman rose from her seat and danced around the machines again to stand in the doorway. The nurses had instructed her a week ago not to leave the room when a code was called, but she saw no harm in standing by the door. She watched as a crying woman was held back by an orderly, as nurses and doctors rushed by. There were several minutes of frantic activity, then nothing. The woman was hysterical as a doctor came out to talk to her. Someone was leaving ICU today. The young woman shivered and went back to her seat, not able to suppress a small feeling of relief, “better you than me”, echoing in her mind.