Cynical Clincal
WHO: Ivan and his visitors, namely Alfred, Raivis, and Kim. Open Thread~
WHEN: Sunday March 14th, Visiting Hours
WHERE: St. Florence Hospital, Seventh Floor, Room 15.
WHAT: I fell into a burning ring of fire, I went down, down, down, and the flames got higher. And it burns, burns, burns. That ring of fire.
The first thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was the temperature. Ivan liked his room the same temperature as his apartment, which was, notably, warmer than the average American home. It was comfortable. It meant that the responsibility of keeping the aching Russian warm didn’t fall back on such a thin layer of scratchy hospital sheets.
The second thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was the temperature. He would often request that the nurses turned it down because the heat made the cells on his arms ache with the traumatic memories of white-hot flames licking at his flesh.
The third thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was his appearance. Bare and exposed, usually covered in layer upon layer of heavy cotton clothing, now replaced with a white tunic that matched the color - or lack thereof - scheme of the room.
The fourth thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was the scars. They were equally bad if not worse as their counterparts now covering his arms; his scarf lay somewhere in the capable hands of a pretty and freckled nurse who promised to get the smell of smoke out of it. The scars stretched like a hideous blueprint along his veins and his jugular and ran parallel to his throat; the deformities now shone - exposed with the demeanor as if Ivan was naked - glowing in a mix the fluorescent lighting of the hospital and the monochrome skylight shining through the window.
The fifth thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was the sunflower - if it was worthy of such a name anymore. If a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, then a rose in any other nature would smell as bitter. It mirrored its deformed counterpart on the hospital bed. Its so few petals curled in, charred and black like the bandaged ‘petals’ of the shopkeeper. Its demeanor, once so proud and tall, sagged and wilted over the ashy vase that filtered and captured the sunlight like a cobweb. It was no longer gold, but bronze, kicked off of its podium by a ruthless competitor. It only symbolized the wilted Russian lying in the hospital bed with a gruesome, fogged up mask covering his nose and mouth. The pretty and freckled nurse wanted him to wear it when he slept.
And the sixth thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was the fact that its only resident was asleep.
WHEN: Sunday March 14th, Visiting Hours
WHERE: St. Florence Hospital, Seventh Floor, Room 15.
WHAT: I fell into a burning ring of fire, I went down, down, down, and the flames got higher. And it burns, burns, burns. That ring of fire.
The first thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was the temperature. Ivan liked his room the same temperature as his apartment, which was, notably, warmer than the average American home. It was comfortable. It meant that the responsibility of keeping the aching Russian warm didn’t fall back on such a thin layer of scratchy hospital sheets.
The second thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was the temperature. He would often request that the nurses turned it down because the heat made the cells on his arms ache with the traumatic memories of white-hot flames licking at his flesh.
The third thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was his appearance. Bare and exposed, usually covered in layer upon layer of heavy cotton clothing, now replaced with a white tunic that matched the color - or lack thereof - scheme of the room.
The fourth thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was the scars. They were equally bad if not worse as their counterparts now covering his arms; his scarf lay somewhere in the capable hands of a pretty and freckled nurse who promised to get the smell of smoke out of it. The scars stretched like a hideous blueprint along his veins and his jugular and ran parallel to his throat; the deformities now shone - exposed with the demeanor as if Ivan was naked - glowing in a mix the fluorescent lighting of the hospital and the monochrome skylight shining through the window.
The fifth thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was the sunflower - if it was worthy of such a name anymore. If a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, then a rose in any other nature would smell as bitter. It mirrored its deformed counterpart on the hospital bed. Its so few petals curled in, charred and black like the bandaged ‘petals’ of the shopkeeper. Its demeanor, once so proud and tall, sagged and wilted over the ashy vase that filtered and captured the sunlight like a cobweb. It was no longer gold, but bronze, kicked off of its podium by a ruthless competitor. It only symbolized the wilted Russian lying in the hospital bed with a gruesome, fogged up mask covering his nose and mouth. The pretty and freckled nurse wanted him to wear it when he slept.
And the sixth thing one would notice when walking into room seven-fifteen was the fact that its only resident was asleep.