(no subject)
Flist! I just took the practice for the Lit GRE. Despite knowing a truly insane amount of things, I got a 29th percentile ;___________; also lol got all the pre reformation british lit questions right it is possible that I have a preference ;___________;
Chaucer, I love you, and I will someday write an epic story about my love for you. ;________; and with hym rood ther a gentil pardoner, of Rouncivale, his freend and companeer. *draws hearts around the pardoner*
It has been three weeks since he woke to the prodding and poking of the hospital, two and a half since he was put in a room with a roommate and a journal for recording his dreams. "We've found it useful in cases such as yours," a nurse said.
"In cases such as his" meant amnesia that did not seem to respond to stimulus, an amnesia that left him looking in the mirror every morning and having the peculiar feeling that the face in the mirror was not his face, that he could concentrate and watch the features soften and mold around each other like he was made of modeling clay. Cases like his involved a great deal of making up rubbish for the damned journal because when the medicines they gave him every night kicked in, he saw nothing but black. His mind thrummed and he woke feeling rested but no more sorted. He did not have dreams.
He had observed enough to know that this was a detail for him alone.
They called him Edward on the floor, though he was quite sure that was not his name. Something of it was close enough that it took only a few days for him to decide it was not a bad name. He did not respond to Ed or Eddie, and they did not call him those things. It struck him, in the way that the mirror did or the way he would sometimes watch long chess matches and think there was something he could just not see beyond the pieces, that he did not want the staff to have his full name, that if they had run a good check of him there were things he did not want him to know.
It was not a bad life, in all. There was something undeniably stifling about it; he couldn't deny that. But it was safe and people looked in on him but did not hover. He was not a danger to himself or others the way some of his floormates were. His roommates never stayed long, usually nervous breakdown chaps that only came for a bit of a rest before going back.
The thing that he did not like was that, rather than dreams, he would have moments of profoundly feeling like there was something there, as if he would blink and in the moment it took for his eye to open, there would be another world, an entire world. Once he was on a cruise ship with a woman by his side. She held her hand in both of hers, and he had a flash of how impossibly small her fingers were before she laughed and there was someone pulling her away. The sun was warm on the deck, and in that flash, he was content.
Coming back to the mint-green walls of his reality was not appreciated. He seated on the couch with the telling blaring, and the ground was not rocking beneath his feet. He was stable; there was no woman with small hands. He was alone.
Occasionally Edward would write about those flashes in his journals. He had enough sense to say they were dreams and not waking-memories. He did not mention the man, either.
The man came sometimes as real as the orderlies, standing in front of Edward with his arms crossed. His hair was very dark and he dressed sharp, smooth lines and hard angles. He hissed out words like "It would be irresponsible" and "Do you understand what you are going to do." Sometimes he would sit at the edge of Edward's bed and smile indulgently. Once he came with the woman, his hand across her stomach and a soft look across his face as he held it there. Hey the man said and he reached an open hand to take Edward's, but the man and woman were gone when Edward reached out to meet them.
This he keeps to himself and does not tell a soul. If they think he is well and truly mad, they might take away these moments with more therapy, more pills. These flashes are the only comfort he really has.
Chaucer, I love you, and I will someday write an epic story about my love for you. ;________; and with hym rood ther a gentil pardoner, of Rouncivale, his freend and companeer. *draws hearts around the pardoner*
It has been three weeks since he woke to the prodding and poking of the hospital, two and a half since he was put in a room with a roommate and a journal for recording his dreams. "We've found it useful in cases such as yours," a nurse said.
"In cases such as his" meant amnesia that did not seem to respond to stimulus, an amnesia that left him looking in the mirror every morning and having the peculiar feeling that the face in the mirror was not his face, that he could concentrate and watch the features soften and mold around each other like he was made of modeling clay. Cases like his involved a great deal of making up rubbish for the damned journal because when the medicines they gave him every night kicked in, he saw nothing but black. His mind thrummed and he woke feeling rested but no more sorted. He did not have dreams.
He had observed enough to know that this was a detail for him alone.
They called him Edward on the floor, though he was quite sure that was not his name. Something of it was close enough that it took only a few days for him to decide it was not a bad name. He did not respond to Ed or Eddie, and they did not call him those things. It struck him, in the way that the mirror did or the way he would sometimes watch long chess matches and think there was something he could just not see beyond the pieces, that he did not want the staff to have his full name, that if they had run a good check of him there were things he did not want him to know.
It was not a bad life, in all. There was something undeniably stifling about it; he couldn't deny that. But it was safe and people looked in on him but did not hover. He was not a danger to himself or others the way some of his floormates were. His roommates never stayed long, usually nervous breakdown chaps that only came for a bit of a rest before going back.
The thing that he did not like was that, rather than dreams, he would have moments of profoundly feeling like there was something there, as if he would blink and in the moment it took for his eye to open, there would be another world, an entire world. Once he was on a cruise ship with a woman by his side. She held her hand in both of hers, and he had a flash of how impossibly small her fingers were before she laughed and there was someone pulling her away. The sun was warm on the deck, and in that flash, he was content.
Coming back to the mint-green walls of his reality was not appreciated. He seated on the couch with the telling blaring, and the ground was not rocking beneath his feet. He was stable; there was no woman with small hands. He was alone.
Occasionally Edward would write about those flashes in his journals. He had enough sense to say they were dreams and not waking-memories. He did not mention the man, either.
The man came sometimes as real as the orderlies, standing in front of Edward with his arms crossed. His hair was very dark and he dressed sharp, smooth lines and hard angles. He hissed out words like "It would be irresponsible" and "Do you understand what you are going to do." Sometimes he would sit at the edge of Edward's bed and smile indulgently. Once he came with the woman, his hand across her stomach and a soft look across his face as he held it there. Hey the man said and he reached an open hand to take Edward's, but the man and woman were gone when Edward reached out to meet them.
This he keeps to himself and does not tell a soul. If they think he is well and truly mad, they might take away these moments with more therapy, more pills. These flashes are the only comfort he really has.