(no subject)
…ipsum erant deprehensa, respondisset dixissetque se semper bonorum ferramentorum studiosum fuisse, recitatis litteris debilitatus atque abiectus conscienta, repente conticuit.
Francis put his pen down and, with a sigh, looked at the clock. Two a.m. For the third night in a row, he couldn’t sleep. After searching the liquor cabinet in the kitchen-more than likely Charles had drunk its contents yet again, but one could still hope-Francis filled a tea kettle with water, setting it on the burner to heat before sitting back at the table and turning his attention back to his translation.
He’d barely begun the next sentence when something slammed into his chest and his thoughts went wild. All of us at the ravine and Bunny crashing through the forest and oh god his shout blending with the sound of the crows and the thud and my heart why is my heart thudding can’t breathe can’t breathe this is what it feels like to die is this how he felt? Dimly, he was aware of a high, insistent keening, a flash of thought-the kettle never made that sound before-before realizing it was him, he was making that sound between raggedy, gasping breaths.
Staggering into the living room, he fumbled for the telephone-call someone, if I’m going to die I want someone to know, don’t want to be forgotten for weeks buried under the snow like him-his hand shaking, he dialed one number, then another, then another.
“Don’t you know what time it is?” Richard’s house chairperson-Vanessa? Victoria? It didn’t matter, not now-answered the phone, her voice sleepily officious.
“Rich-Richard Papen, please. It’s urgent.”
“Of course it is.” An exasperated hiss, the sound of retreating footsteps at the other end of the line, then silence until-
“What do you want?”
“Richard, I’m having a heart attack.”
“You’re all right, go back to sleep.”
Francis almost cried out at this, the terror that Richard would hang up the phone and pad back to bed-and leave me alone, he’s the only one left to talk to, the only one that can help, the only one that cares-horrifically real. “Listen to me. I’m having a heart attack. I think I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re not.” Richard, attempting to soothe, his words calm and measured.
“I have all the symptoms. Pain in the left arm. Tightness in chest. Difficulty breathing.” He tried to make a mental inventory, to think of other symptoms, other reasons to make Richard agree to see him. “Please, Richard.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to come over here and drive me to the hospital.”
“Why don’t you call the ambulance?”
“Because I’m scared of the ambulance.” He slumped down beside the telephone table, closing his eyes in an attempt to calm himself before continuing. “Don’t call the ambulance. The sirens-everyone will hear and they’ll know that something’s wrong, they’ll ask questions I can’t answer and-Richard?”
A silence on the other end of the line, a surface beneath him soft and shifting, and the sound of…waves? Were those waves? Francis opened his eyes.
“Richard? Richard!”
((ooc: Come meet everyone's (or at least my) favorite hypochondriac trust-fund classics student! First person to tag gets to talk him down from his panic attack and explain all; everyone else can find him on the beach still unnerved at the idea of being on a magic island, but at least knowing what's what. Check his slated post for more details, and let me know if you have questions!))
Francis put his pen down and, with a sigh, looked at the clock. Two a.m. For the third night in a row, he couldn’t sleep. After searching the liquor cabinet in the kitchen-more than likely Charles had drunk its contents yet again, but one could still hope-Francis filled a tea kettle with water, setting it on the burner to heat before sitting back at the table and turning his attention back to his translation.
He’d barely begun the next sentence when something slammed into his chest and his thoughts went wild. All of us at the ravine and Bunny crashing through the forest and oh god his shout blending with the sound of the crows and the thud and my heart why is my heart thudding can’t breathe can’t breathe this is what it feels like to die is this how he felt? Dimly, he was aware of a high, insistent keening, a flash of thought-the kettle never made that sound before-before realizing it was him, he was making that sound between raggedy, gasping breaths.
Staggering into the living room, he fumbled for the telephone-call someone, if I’m going to die I want someone to know, don’t want to be forgotten for weeks buried under the snow like him-his hand shaking, he dialed one number, then another, then another.
“Don’t you know what time it is?” Richard’s house chairperson-Vanessa? Victoria? It didn’t matter, not now-answered the phone, her voice sleepily officious.
“Rich-Richard Papen, please. It’s urgent.”
“Of course it is.” An exasperated hiss, the sound of retreating footsteps at the other end of the line, then silence until-
“What do you want?”
“Richard, I’m having a heart attack.”
“You’re all right, go back to sleep.”
Francis almost cried out at this, the terror that Richard would hang up the phone and pad back to bed-and leave me alone, he’s the only one left to talk to, the only one that can help, the only one that cares-horrifically real. “Listen to me. I’m having a heart attack. I think I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re not.” Richard, attempting to soothe, his words calm and measured.
“I have all the symptoms. Pain in the left arm. Tightness in chest. Difficulty breathing.” He tried to make a mental inventory, to think of other symptoms, other reasons to make Richard agree to see him. “Please, Richard.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to come over here and drive me to the hospital.”
“Why don’t you call the ambulance?”
“Because I’m scared of the ambulance.” He slumped down beside the telephone table, closing his eyes in an attempt to calm himself before continuing. “Don’t call the ambulance. The sirens-everyone will hear and they’ll know that something’s wrong, they’ll ask questions I can’t answer and-Richard?”
A silence on the other end of the line, a surface beneath him soft and shifting, and the sound of…waves? Were those waves? Francis opened his eyes.
“Richard? Richard!”
((ooc: Come meet everyone's (or at least my) favorite hypochondriac trust-fund classics student! First person to tag gets to talk him down from his panic attack and explain all; everyone else can find him on the beach still unnerved at the idea of being on a magic island, but at least knowing what's what. Check his slated post for more details, and let me know if you have questions!))