The Life Criterion 6e/??
anonymous
August 7 2010, 14:36:25 UTC
She left without a second glance and finally Alfred went in, “Good morning Arthur, are you ready to-” He was met with a scowl-as predicted-and Alfred did finish his conversation starter, just not as planned, “they got polka dot gown? How come I never saw it before?”
Arthur seemed not readier to talk than he was hours ago, “you came all the way to comment on the sense of clothes I have nothing to do with or what?”
“I’m just surprised. You don’t wanna talk about the clothes, fine then. We’ll talk about your headache. When did it first start?”
At first Alfred thought Arthur would fall silent or covered up by searching for answers that were almost always left unsaid. But Arthur replied, businesslike, “About a month ago. I was working on my graduate papers and didn’t get much sleep. I thought-” He came to an abrupt stop.
“You thought?” Alfred tried.
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Hey,” Alfred waited until Arthur looked him in the eyes; then said, “If there is something you want to tell me, you should. Whatever it is.”
Arthur hesitated, but decided to go on, “I thought it’s just, nothing. And everything would be fine again if I had finished my papers and got rest but then,” another pause, “the cough.”
“So the cough started after the headache?”
“I mean it got worse. I was . . . having a cold before it all started.”
Alfred just wrote it down on the clipboard. He wanted to ask Arthur what took him so long but he didn’t want it to come across like guilt tripping. Not everyone could afford seeing a doctor whenever they felt ill and Arthur was at last trying to talk today; Alfred didn’t want to risk that.
“Can you describe what it’s like? The headache?”
“It happened really quick and sudden,” the sentence broke off but Alfred knew Arthur was thinking, remembering, “it’s . . . sharp.”
“Was it throbbing pain?”
“No it’s more like . . . tearing.”
“How often did it happen?”
“It’s not that often as it used to be. It only happened once after I got here.”
“Did you have a fever when it first happened?”
“Could be. I wasn’t feeling well then, had to ask my professor to put back the deadline. I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
The bitterness behind that made Alfred wonder out aloud, “Why is that? You can still hand it out when you get better and have it done, right?”
Arthur shook off Alfred’s wishful thinking, “He already found someone else to be his assistant. And if I were him, I wouldn’t hire someone hospitalised.”
“This is not permanent,” Alfred didn’t know what he was saying and why but he said it anyway; “You’ll get well. And out. And you’ll finish that paper you’d worked so hard on so you can shove it on his face.”
Something flashed through Arthur’s eyes; it was gone in an instant but Alfred was damn well sure he saw it, and the smirk followed after, “I never said I wouldn’t.” said Arthur.
“Alright then. Let me know if you’re having it again okay?”
“I won’t.”
“Erm, I mean the headache?” Alfred said, confused.
“Oh. That.” Arthur stuttered a little, “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Then Alfred noticed. The personal belongings in the room. It’s not much but he could already see-things, in it.
“So, I guessed you unpacked?” landing his gaze on the several books on the bedside table, Alfred asked in a casual way.
Arthur followed his eyes, and nodded, “I have plenty of time.”
“Don’t tell me you packed your whole stash here,” Alfred joked, and wanted a little to take it back as Arthur turned away and said nothing. “I thought there would be more if that’s the case,” he added with a laugh.
“It’s all here. I sold those I couldn’t bring with me.”
Arthur’s voice was too quiet. Alfred almost missed it, “why?” he asked with a frown, “I mean you could have left it behind if you couldn’t bring it.”
“Who knows how long I’ll be stuck here,” said Arthur, “and that French bastard is the last person with whom I’ll entrust my property.”
So he did know, thought Alfred. He read it on a journal that sometimes patients knew, felt, what was happening on them although most of the time they mistook it, brushed it off, or ignored it completely.
Arthur seemed not readier to talk than he was hours ago, “you came all the way to comment on the sense of clothes I have nothing to do with or what?”
“I’m just surprised. You don’t wanna talk about the clothes, fine then. We’ll talk about your headache. When did it first start?”
At first Alfred thought Arthur would fall silent or covered up by searching for answers that were almost always left unsaid. But Arthur replied, businesslike, “About a month ago. I was working on my graduate papers and didn’t get much sleep. I thought-” He came to an abrupt stop.
“You thought?” Alfred tried.
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Hey,” Alfred waited until Arthur looked him in the eyes; then said, “If there is something you want to tell me, you should. Whatever it is.”
Arthur hesitated, but decided to go on, “I thought it’s just, nothing. And everything would be fine again if I had finished my papers and got rest but then,” another pause, “the cough.”
“So the cough started after the headache?”
“I mean it got worse. I was . . . having a cold before it all started.”
Alfred just wrote it down on the clipboard. He wanted to ask Arthur what took him so long but he didn’t want it to come across like guilt tripping. Not everyone could afford seeing a doctor whenever they felt ill and Arthur was at last trying to talk today; Alfred didn’t want to risk that.
“Can you describe what it’s like? The headache?”
“It happened really quick and sudden,” the sentence broke off but Alfred knew Arthur was thinking, remembering, “it’s . . . sharp.”
“Was it throbbing pain?”
“No it’s more like . . . tearing.”
“How often did it happen?”
“It’s not that often as it used to be. It only happened once after I got here.”
“Did you have a fever when it first happened?”
“Could be. I wasn’t feeling well then, had to ask my professor to put back the deadline. I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
The bitterness behind that made Alfred wonder out aloud, “Why is that? You can still hand it out when you get better and have it done, right?”
Arthur shook off Alfred’s wishful thinking, “He already found someone else to be his assistant. And if I were him, I wouldn’t hire someone hospitalised.”
“This is not permanent,” Alfred didn’t know what he was saying and why but he said it anyway; “You’ll get well. And out. And you’ll finish that paper you’d worked so hard on so you can shove it on his face.”
Something flashed through Arthur’s eyes; it was gone in an instant but Alfred was damn well sure he saw it, and the smirk followed after, “I never said I wouldn’t.” said Arthur.
“Alright then. Let me know if you’re having it again okay?”
“I won’t.”
“Erm, I mean the headache?” Alfred said, confused.
“Oh. That.” Arthur stuttered a little, “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Then Alfred noticed. The personal belongings in the room. It’s not much but he could already see-things, in it.
“So, I guessed you unpacked?” landing his gaze on the several books on the bedside table, Alfred asked in a casual way.
Arthur followed his eyes, and nodded, “I have plenty of time.”
“Don’t tell me you packed your whole stash here,” Alfred joked, and wanted a little to take it back as Arthur turned away and said nothing. “I thought there would be more if that’s the case,” he added with a laugh.
“It’s all here. I sold those I couldn’t bring with me.”
Arthur’s voice was too quiet. Alfred almost missed it, “why?” he asked with a frown, “I mean you could have left it behind if you couldn’t bring it.”
“Who knows how long I’ll be stuck here,” said Arthur, “and that French bastard is the last person with whom I’ll entrust my property.”
So he did know, thought Alfred. He read it on a journal that sometimes patients knew, felt, what was happening on them although most of the time they mistook it, brushed it off, or ignored it completely.
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