(no subject)
The clinic wasn't a very boring place, but it wasn't exactly a mecca of entertainment and hobbies either. Conversation was pleasing if you could catch a doctor's attention long enough to get out several words. There was also the pleasant enjoyment of a good book, but Wesley's gaze strained easily and he grew weary when recuperating from pain. That left thought; a great deal of thinking, as a matter of fact.
He thought and he thought and he thought some more when he considered abandoning the activity for something more productive. And more often than not, his thoughts would gravitate towards the past and all the things he regretted.
His mind was stuck in a dark and small cupboard beneath the stairs in a country far, far away. Rainy days and echoed sounds became his constant companions as Wesley closed his eyes and spent his hours in the Clinic imagining a time he'd long ago left. If he concentrated hard enough, he could even hear his father's voice, telling him that it was time to stop dallying around and study like a good boy.
Wesley made sure not to concentrate too hard.
His wounds hurt, but they were far better this time around than the last explosion, when he'd required a wheelchair to access any point. He felt he could walk if he tried, but also knew if he tried to walk, he might be gravely scolded for it. And so, he lay on a clinic bed, staring at the ceiling, and traced scars up and down his arms as he drifted back to England and closed his eyes to better remember the smell of Mother's garden.
He thought and he thought and he thought some more when he considered abandoning the activity for something more productive. And more often than not, his thoughts would gravitate towards the past and all the things he regretted.
His mind was stuck in a dark and small cupboard beneath the stairs in a country far, far away. Rainy days and echoed sounds became his constant companions as Wesley closed his eyes and spent his hours in the Clinic imagining a time he'd long ago left. If he concentrated hard enough, he could even hear his father's voice, telling him that it was time to stop dallying around and study like a good boy.
Wesley made sure not to concentrate too hard.
His wounds hurt, but they were far better this time around than the last explosion, when he'd required a wheelchair to access any point. He felt he could walk if he tried, but also knew if he tried to walk, he might be gravely scolded for it. And so, he lay on a clinic bed, staring at the ceiling, and traced scars up and down his arms as he drifted back to England and closed his eyes to better remember the smell of Mother's garden.