Drabble - "I've always hated hospitals..."
Drabble-fic-thing: I've always hated hospitals...
Rating: PG for angst? I don't know.
Written for the Mind Reading Month challenge started by the wonderful
anti_social_ite (i'll get to your prompt when I FIND someone with cool earrings!) and
achairsomewhere ...
The idea is to basically 'get inside the head' of someone in a certain situation... this comes from my interpretation of the thoughts of a late-middleaged woman as we rode the bus one morning- based on some observation, intuition and plenty of random imagination! That's probably why it makes little sense :P
This is the first time ever I've put something that I've written before my friends and the public domain - it's not very good but it was an interesting exercise to think about someone so vastly different from myself (so apologies if it may seem slightly unrealistic or prejudiced - it brought up some fascinating thoughts though...) and it feels nice stretching out my writing muscles.
So, my wonderful little f-list - please, please have a read and let me know what you think!! This was more of a practice, because I hope to do quite a few more...
Oh yeah - if you guys have a prompt for me, or want one of your own, just drop a comment!
The bus is stopping…it’s…the university stop. One stop closer. One stop…
The words of the stop name on the side of the bus station are a little bit blurry … it’s probably just tiredness, of course. Nothing to worry about. I’ve been so… tired lately and… I’m not that old for it to be anything else. Yet. I think. I hope.
There are people getting on - high schoolers that look like they want to crawl back into bed, university students fresh in their youth, working people… god, look at their suits and their shiny shoes and their briefcases and laptops. Is that… a pair of Versace sunglasses? And a Louis Vuitton handbag? They all look so sophisticated and stylish… so sure of themselves and their ambitions and hopes and dreams…
They get all of the opportunities - university degrees, flash jobs and homes and clothes because the economy is doing so well… and then there me, growing up in a little house, only ever really dreaming of becoming a hairdresser and opening up my own saloon.
I feel so… out of place in this outfit - in my skirt and my bag and my zebra bandanna I picked up last week. Like… I’m poor, or rustic, or really old or something.
Have I underdressed, perhaps? Can you even under-dress when you go for an appointment at the bloody hospital?
There’s a school student moving down… she’s dark skinned. Glasses. A bit fat too - probably spends her time either studying or watching TV. Indian, perhaps? Muslim? Who knows.
Just look at that uniform and the blazer - one of those rich, snobby schools in the city, I suppose. Doesn’t look like they’ve really changed the uniform much - they looked exactly the same in school; quiet, snobby, always playing with their rich toys - she’s got an iPod too. What a surprise.
Why is she looking at me like that? It’s not.. the clothes? But there is almost curiosity in her eyes… her dark, dark eyes…
Um… where are we now? Still a few stops to go.
Do I have everything? My wallet, my phone, all the reports that Dr. Stevenson put in the folder - I shoved them all in my bag this morning. And the appointment time is definitely 8:15 am? I’m a bit early - but that’s fine. Better than being late, right?
I’m so… I’m so tired. I don’t want to do this - I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to be told I’m going to need chemotherapy - I’m going to need to pay such a big price for the stupidity of my youth.
I can’t believe… it’s been such a long time since I’ve even set foot in a hospital. And wasn’t that … Tom, when he broke his leg playing basketball on the courts across the road. I hate the white walls - the equipment, the sick people… and that foul smell of antiseptic… that horrible feeling when the doctor comes out and tells you what you really, really don’t want to hear.
Tom. Perhaps I should ring him tonight - invite him and Sheryl over for lunch tomorrow, or something?
Isn’t it weird how even the thought of death coming close to you makes you so scared all of a sudden - so determined to make amends for everything in your life - to set it all right?
Wayne will be upset if he knows I’m thinking like this - didn’t we read last night that if it’s found early, it can be treated early? He’d be telling me to think about what we’re going to be having for dinner tonight because it’s probably my bigger problem - hm. Maybe we should have steak tonight? Something… nice. Or we could go to a fancy restaurant in town - like the ones I can see now, out of the window.
The bus is stopping again - here we are. So many people are getting off. I can see the hospital from here - it’s painted in bright, happy colours…
Is the building trying to mock me in my uncertainty? Or tell me it’s all going to be okay?
Only one way to find out.
Rating: PG for angst? I don't know.
Written for the Mind Reading Month challenge started by the wonderful
anti_social_ite (i'll get to your prompt when I FIND someone with cool earrings!) and
achairsomewhere ...
The idea is to basically 'get inside the head' of someone in a certain situation... this comes from my interpretation of the thoughts of a late-middleaged woman as we rode the bus one morning- based on some observation, intuition and plenty of random imagination! That's probably why it makes little sense :P
This is the first time ever I've put something that I've written before my friends and the public domain - it's not very good but it was an interesting exercise to think about someone so vastly different from myself (so apologies if it may seem slightly unrealistic or prejudiced - it brought up some fascinating thoughts though...) and it feels nice stretching out my writing muscles.
So, my wonderful little f-list - please, please have a read and let me know what you think!! This was more of a practice, because I hope to do quite a few more...
Oh yeah - if you guys have a prompt for me, or want one of your own, just drop a comment!
The bus is stopping…it’s…the university stop. One stop closer. One stop…
The words of the stop name on the side of the bus station are a little bit blurry … it’s probably just tiredness, of course. Nothing to worry about. I’ve been so… tired lately and… I’m not that old for it to be anything else. Yet. I think. I hope.
There are people getting on - high schoolers that look like they want to crawl back into bed, university students fresh in their youth, working people… god, look at their suits and their shiny shoes and their briefcases and laptops. Is that… a pair of Versace sunglasses? And a Louis Vuitton handbag? They all look so sophisticated and stylish… so sure of themselves and their ambitions and hopes and dreams…
They get all of the opportunities - university degrees, flash jobs and homes and clothes because the economy is doing so well… and then there me, growing up in a little house, only ever really dreaming of becoming a hairdresser and opening up my own saloon.
I feel so… out of place in this outfit - in my skirt and my bag and my zebra bandanna I picked up last week. Like… I’m poor, or rustic, or really old or something.
Have I underdressed, perhaps? Can you even under-dress when you go for an appointment at the bloody hospital?
There’s a school student moving down… she’s dark skinned. Glasses. A bit fat too - probably spends her time either studying or watching TV. Indian, perhaps? Muslim? Who knows.
Just look at that uniform and the blazer - one of those rich, snobby schools in the city, I suppose. Doesn’t look like they’ve really changed the uniform much - they looked exactly the same in school; quiet, snobby, always playing with their rich toys - she’s got an iPod too. What a surprise.
Why is she looking at me like that? It’s not.. the clothes? But there is almost curiosity in her eyes… her dark, dark eyes…
Um… where are we now? Still a few stops to go.
Do I have everything? My wallet, my phone, all the reports that Dr. Stevenson put in the folder - I shoved them all in my bag this morning. And the appointment time is definitely 8:15 am? I’m a bit early - but that’s fine. Better than being late, right?
I’m so… I’m so tired. I don’t want to do this - I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to be told I’m going to need chemotherapy - I’m going to need to pay such a big price for the stupidity of my youth.
I can’t believe… it’s been such a long time since I’ve even set foot in a hospital. And wasn’t that … Tom, when he broke his leg playing basketball on the courts across the road. I hate the white walls - the equipment, the sick people… and that foul smell of antiseptic… that horrible feeling when the doctor comes out and tells you what you really, really don’t want to hear.
Tom. Perhaps I should ring him tonight - invite him and Sheryl over for lunch tomorrow, or something?
Isn’t it weird how even the thought of death coming close to you makes you so scared all of a sudden - so determined to make amends for everything in your life - to set it all right?
Wayne will be upset if he knows I’m thinking like this - didn’t we read last night that if it’s found early, it can be treated early? He’d be telling me to think about what we’re going to be having for dinner tonight because it’s probably my bigger problem - hm. Maybe we should have steak tonight? Something… nice. Or we could go to a fancy restaurant in town - like the ones I can see now, out of the window.
The bus is stopping again - here we are. So many people are getting off. I can see the hospital from here - it’s painted in bright, happy colours…
Is the building trying to mock me in my uncertainty? Or tell me it’s all going to be okay?
Only one way to find out.