(no subject)
When somone was confined to a bed or room for a length of time, they tended to grow restless. When that person was both in pain, confused, and prone to psychological fits, that restless became something unsatisfiable.
Vincent, during his past stays in hospitals, had always attempted to be a good patient. This was not always possible, as sometimes he grew angry, or frightened, or simply lost his senses and made a nuisance of himself. But when these things had occurred, he had known exactly where he was, he'd had visitors in the form of friends or family to calm his nerves, and he always had the knowledge available to him that once it was over he would be able to leave and return to where ever he called home at the time. But now, he had no such knowledge. He had no brother to visit his bedside, he had no few but close friends to send him letters with kind words of encouragment and promises to get together and discuss art or life over a meal of alcohol and tobacco once he was well.
The restlessness Vincent often was subject to was finding no satisfaction. If anything, it grew worse than ever. He could find no peace, he reclined or sat in his bed, nearly trembling with energy and quick confusing thoughts that made his breathing heavy and his eyes dart about the room in a manner of which a claustrophobic would regard a closed space.
It was because of this that one day, on a whim that was possibly due to a slight fever he was quite possibly suffering, Vincent slid awkwardly from his bed and stepped into his boots. His bandage had already been changed today, and the clinic staff thought he was resting, so no time seemed better than the present to make his escape. Where he intended to go, he didn't know, but anywhere was better than the wretched room and his damned bed. The fact that whoever was supposed to be at the desk wasn't there only encouraged him, and he left the room, untied bootstraps scraping softly across the floor as he went.
It wasn't until he was barely halfway down a corridor and leaning heavily against the wall, braces hanging loosely around his legs and a shirt somone had placed by his bedside open and flapping against his flushed skin as his breath came painfully, that it occurred to him that perhaps it had been ambitious to leave unaided so soon. None the less, he'd rather wander about aimlessly and curl upto rest in an empty corner than go back to that damned room.
[[Vincent is not at his best right now, but when is he ever? Anyone is welcome, but ultimately he needs to go back to the clinic. He's not quite having a crazy fit, but he could slip into one, just so you're forwarned. For the most part, he's perfectly approachable. ST/LT welcome.]]
Vincent, during his past stays in hospitals, had always attempted to be a good patient. This was not always possible, as sometimes he grew angry, or frightened, or simply lost his senses and made a nuisance of himself. But when these things had occurred, he had known exactly where he was, he'd had visitors in the form of friends or family to calm his nerves, and he always had the knowledge available to him that once it was over he would be able to leave and return to where ever he called home at the time. But now, he had no such knowledge. He had no brother to visit his bedside, he had no few but close friends to send him letters with kind words of encouragment and promises to get together and discuss art or life over a meal of alcohol and tobacco once he was well.
The restlessness Vincent often was subject to was finding no satisfaction. If anything, it grew worse than ever. He could find no peace, he reclined or sat in his bed, nearly trembling with energy and quick confusing thoughts that made his breathing heavy and his eyes dart about the room in a manner of which a claustrophobic would regard a closed space.
It was because of this that one day, on a whim that was possibly due to a slight fever he was quite possibly suffering, Vincent slid awkwardly from his bed and stepped into his boots. His bandage had already been changed today, and the clinic staff thought he was resting, so no time seemed better than the present to make his escape. Where he intended to go, he didn't know, but anywhere was better than the wretched room and his damned bed. The fact that whoever was supposed to be at the desk wasn't there only encouraged him, and he left the room, untied bootstraps scraping softly across the floor as he went.
It wasn't until he was barely halfway down a corridor and leaning heavily against the wall, braces hanging loosely around his legs and a shirt somone had placed by his bedside open and flapping against his flushed skin as his breath came painfully, that it occurred to him that perhaps it had been ambitious to leave unaided so soon. None the less, he'd rather wander about aimlessly and curl upto rest in an empty corner than go back to that damned room.
[[Vincent is not at his best right now, but when is he ever? Anyone is welcome, but ultimately he needs to go back to the clinic. He's not quite having a crazy fit, but he could slip into one, just so you're forwarned. For the most part, he's perfectly approachable. ST/LT welcome.]]