Well Aimed Chaos (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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rainbowfic2013-07-15 10:37 am
whitemage) wrote in rainbowfic2013-07-15 10:37 am
Fire Opal #11; Fever Red #2; Surgical Steel #9
Name: Ardy
Piece/Story: The Average Annie Duskcrow/Working title Blood Saint
Colors: Fire Opal 11 (own personal war); Fever Red 2 (chronic); Surgical Steel 9 (IV)
Styles/Supplies: Graffiti
Word Count: 1640
Ratings/Warnings: PG - explicit description of bleeding, discussion of illness and death; No standard warnings apply (though if I’ve missed one, please tell me!)
Notes: This is a new voice for me, so I apologize if she’s a little rough or has a bit of emotional whiplash in the first few pieces.Hopefully she’ll solidify like a properly coagulating blood clot. Edit: Thank you for the tags!
There were 1,446 dots in each panel above my head. Each panel had a width of 12 inches, and there were four columns of them between the two mint green curtains on either side of my cot. For privacy, the nurse had pulled the third curtain across the end of my space in the emergency room. I was in the limbo of triage, engulfed by the whims of a colorblind interior designer and the beeps, whines, screams, and murmuring medical jargon that was hospital drama.
There were 23,136 dots in my ceiling territory, and if I stared at them long enough, I could close my eyes and the after-image emblazoned on my retina would burst into negative, creating a sea of primordial, unpatterned stars in my eyes. If I let it sit, breathed slow and steadily--in for 8, 9, 10--out for 10, 9, 8 and onward--they would slowly flicker out, time moving backwards from before the first moments of God’s sweeping hand into the first Void which existed in the eons before our world.
I would squeeze my eyes more tightly shut, and colors would crackle to life, creating the sensation of matter and expansion. In this way, while healthcare professionals fiercely debated my current fate, I relived the Big Bang over and over.
Someone who spends their entire life being a case study, who wracks up frequent flyer miles with emergency departments and exam rooms, learns the value of entertaining themselves. Eternity is not the terrifying nor incomprehensible prospect it seems to so many who live life in the hale and well fast lane. They’ve already waited it out once, and could do so even if the clock were to utterly stop over just creeping by.
There’s a clock behind my head. It’s ticking on the back beat of the monitor beside my bed. It would almost be a rhythmic song, except the timing is nanoseconds off.
My fingers attempted to tap out the proper beat in correction, but that did little more than remind me of the rosary tangled around my hand. It was from my brother, Luke, with beads of bloodstone at my grandmother’s insistence. They were both radiantly joyful when I converted--though for Luke, it was just in sharing his faith. My grandmother, on the other hand, was convinced it would lead to my miraculous recovery.
My mysterious hematological condition continued to deteriorate bit by bit--I wasn’t sure that counted as a miracle. Unless I was destined for a bitterly macabre kind of sainthood.
I began praying quietly, beads clicking covertly under the blanket over me. I made it only to the first mystery, but it was Tuesday, so I ended up stuck in the garden of Gethsemane.
I remembered a song they used to sing at the Baptist church Dad frequented--several songs, actually, about this very event. They reminded me of what I’d learned about Puritans: very obsessed with suffering. People pin that on the Catholics, but they seem to greet suffering either with perverse joy or contented stoicism. Those with more Calvinist influences, it’s like they glut themselves on the horrors and majesty of it, like they find themselves impressed with the idea of being so anxious and terrified facing down a crucifixion that the future martyr is sweating drops of blood. Trust me, there are a disturbing number of hymns that discuss sweating blood in finer detail that just matter-of-factly mentioning it.
I wasn’t sweating blood--thankfully--but I had certainly been crying it before I collapsed. Haemolacria: it sounds so pretty and mysterious. It was a bit more stomach churning to experience, though. Probably moreso for the college chaplain that came across me meditating in the campus chapel than for me. The beautiful sunny day of early spring was filtering gently through the stained glass windows as I lifted up my head, a red fountain meandering out of my eyes in dainty rivulets. He turned a little ashen. I probably won’t be going back there for a while.
“Hey! I heard you did a statue of Mary impersonation--impressive.” My thoughts snapped back to the present as Luke strode in and plunked down on a rolling stool, a bright but clearly professional smile covering over the concern in his drawn face. His dark bangs were starting to fall into his eyes, hospital name tag dangling from the end of his sleeve, body still in a rush even after he had come to a physical rest.
I focused on the bright white square centered on his starched collar to avoid eye contact. Since we had reunited in adulthood, he had become one of my closest confidants, and a safe place to break down. But breaking down right now including crying again, and while it wouldn’t bother him, my eyeballs and water line were still stinging from last time. “How long ago did you get the call?”
His whole demeanor went sheepish in my periphery. “Speeding is morally acceptable if it’s an emergency.”
“Getting yourself killed when I’m only sick as I ever was is not sisterly acceptable, though.” I lived with the possibility of my own death for so long, it had become an old friend. Still, that gave it no right to go around snatching up my loved ones.
Luke waved a hand, then rummaged the cart by my bed, pulling out an alcohol wipe. “Enough about me: do they have a decision on what to do with you yet?”
I watched his scarred but nimble fingers wrestle with the package. “Dr. Patel was over in French Lick today. She’s making her way back, and is still debating admitting me or not.”
Scooting closer, Luke nodded as he began to carefully wipe my face clean. “Do you think they should?”
I chewed my lip, tapping the rosary automatically. “I don’t know. I hate to miss classes, but a forced break would be nice. I’m so tired.”
“How many hours do you have this semester?”
I frowned. “18. That’s required to finish the program in 2 years.” My tone may have been a little defensive--people had been trying to get me to quit nursing school since before I had even applied. To me, this was already a compromise from attempting medical school--something I couldn’t do just from the physical aspect of the hours necessary. I had good days and bad days, and one couldn’t afford the latter trying to complete the classes, let alone an internship and residency.
Luke steepled his hands in thought, the wipe hanging down between them. “Do you have to--”
“I really want this.” I broke in quickly, assuming his thoughts. Maybe he only wished me to slow down instead of stop, but either one felt devastating to me. “Even if I can’t be healed myself, I want to help. I want to be part of healing others. To give them back a portion of their life’s quality. This is important to me, Luke.”
He nodded, remaining in his position for what felt like a considerable length of time. He mopped up one last rust-colored path on my cheek. “Even as we all have burdens, we also all have gifts. As much as you might want to do that service, there might be something else waiting for you to hear its call.”
I grabbed his hand, pulling the wipe from it. “What are you trying to say?”
He licked his lips nervously. “I was talking to Grandmother--”
I threw the wipe in his face and crossed my arms, ending up tangled and whimpering in the equipment--and the needle stuck in my arm.
He chuckled and threw it in the trash, standing up to help me straighten out. His smile was much more brotherly over ecclesiastical now. “Seriously, though, she would like to see you. I’m not saying you have to just go live with her permanently, but you’ve already mentioned a break. This could be a good one.”
“Oh...” Arguing internally about following his advice--no more compromises! No more waiting!--I realized the strange tears had started up again. It was a thick oozing that still managed to reach my chin too quickly. Drip. Drip.
Relatively keeping his cool, Luke blotted at my face with a tissue, scrambling to hand it to me and poke his head out of the curtains. “Nurse! Please!”
The authoritative request for attention was answered by a few dutifully bustling ones on the other side. One in particular zeroed in. “Yes! Father?”
I gripped the rosary, not even trying to stop myself anymore. There was busyness and harried discussion around me. Phones calls being placed, orders barked. Luke squeezing my hand that cradled the beads as he watched, interjecting with a prayer.
The IV blew--predictably--with a sudden change in my blood pressure and a poorly laid stab to begin with. The needle flew off, the tubing leaked and sprayed. There were exclamations. A new kit on my bed. Jabs into both arms to find a vein as they all rolled away. A fervent wish from someone that they hadn’t taken out my port when it became infected last year.
Everything became more frantic as they realized skin had opened a few places on my arms as well. They gave up on the line. In a split second, the discussion shifted from whether or not I could cope with the life I wanted to whether or not I could still cope with life at all.
My vision blurred and I blinked, sinking back into the pillow; hollow resignation replaced fretting in my breast as I gave myself over to numerous outcomes. In my chart, there are 8 active prescriptions. Around me, there is one priest and two nurses. Above me, there is one God, thousands of angels, and 23,136 dots.
And we were still an army outnumbered, at the mercy of my one broken body.
Piece/Story: The Average Annie Duskcrow/Working title Blood Saint
Colors: Fire Opal 11 (own personal war); Fever Red 2 (chronic); Surgical Steel 9 (IV)
Styles/Supplies: Graffiti
Word Count: 1640
Ratings/Warnings: PG - explicit description of bleeding, discussion of illness and death; No standard warnings apply (though if I’ve missed one, please tell me!)
Notes: This is a new voice for me, so I apologize if she’s a little rough or has a bit of emotional whiplash in the first few pieces.
There were 1,446 dots in each panel above my head. Each panel had a width of 12 inches, and there were four columns of them between the two mint green curtains on either side of my cot. For privacy, the nurse had pulled the third curtain across the end of my space in the emergency room. I was in the limbo of triage, engulfed by the whims of a colorblind interior designer and the beeps, whines, screams, and murmuring medical jargon that was hospital drama.
There were 23,136 dots in my ceiling territory, and if I stared at them long enough, I could close my eyes and the after-image emblazoned on my retina would burst into negative, creating a sea of primordial, unpatterned stars in my eyes. If I let it sit, breathed slow and steadily--in for 8, 9, 10--out for 10, 9, 8 and onward--they would slowly flicker out, time moving backwards from before the first moments of God’s sweeping hand into the first Void which existed in the eons before our world.
I would squeeze my eyes more tightly shut, and colors would crackle to life, creating the sensation of matter and expansion. In this way, while healthcare professionals fiercely debated my current fate, I relived the Big Bang over and over.
Someone who spends their entire life being a case study, who wracks up frequent flyer miles with emergency departments and exam rooms, learns the value of entertaining themselves. Eternity is not the terrifying nor incomprehensible prospect it seems to so many who live life in the hale and well fast lane. They’ve already waited it out once, and could do so even if the clock were to utterly stop over just creeping by.
There’s a clock behind my head. It’s ticking on the back beat of the monitor beside my bed. It would almost be a rhythmic song, except the timing is nanoseconds off.
My fingers attempted to tap out the proper beat in correction, but that did little more than remind me of the rosary tangled around my hand. It was from my brother, Luke, with beads of bloodstone at my grandmother’s insistence. They were both radiantly joyful when I converted--though for Luke, it was just in sharing his faith. My grandmother, on the other hand, was convinced it would lead to my miraculous recovery.
My mysterious hematological condition continued to deteriorate bit by bit--I wasn’t sure that counted as a miracle. Unless I was destined for a bitterly macabre kind of sainthood.
I began praying quietly, beads clicking covertly under the blanket over me. I made it only to the first mystery, but it was Tuesday, so I ended up stuck in the garden of Gethsemane.
I remembered a song they used to sing at the Baptist church Dad frequented--several songs, actually, about this very event. They reminded me of what I’d learned about Puritans: very obsessed with suffering. People pin that on the Catholics, but they seem to greet suffering either with perverse joy or contented stoicism. Those with more Calvinist influences, it’s like they glut themselves on the horrors and majesty of it, like they find themselves impressed with the idea of being so anxious and terrified facing down a crucifixion that the future martyr is sweating drops of blood. Trust me, there are a disturbing number of hymns that discuss sweating blood in finer detail that just matter-of-factly mentioning it.
I wasn’t sweating blood--thankfully--but I had certainly been crying it before I collapsed. Haemolacria: it sounds so pretty and mysterious. It was a bit more stomach churning to experience, though. Probably moreso for the college chaplain that came across me meditating in the campus chapel than for me. The beautiful sunny day of early spring was filtering gently through the stained glass windows as I lifted up my head, a red fountain meandering out of my eyes in dainty rivulets. He turned a little ashen. I probably won’t be going back there for a while.
“Hey! I heard you did a statue of Mary impersonation--impressive.” My thoughts snapped back to the present as Luke strode in and plunked down on a rolling stool, a bright but clearly professional smile covering over the concern in his drawn face. His dark bangs were starting to fall into his eyes, hospital name tag dangling from the end of his sleeve, body still in a rush even after he had come to a physical rest.
I focused on the bright white square centered on his starched collar to avoid eye contact. Since we had reunited in adulthood, he had become one of my closest confidants, and a safe place to break down. But breaking down right now including crying again, and while it wouldn’t bother him, my eyeballs and water line were still stinging from last time. “How long ago did you get the call?”
His whole demeanor went sheepish in my periphery. “Speeding is morally acceptable if it’s an emergency.”
“Getting yourself killed when I’m only sick as I ever was is not sisterly acceptable, though.” I lived with the possibility of my own death for so long, it had become an old friend. Still, that gave it no right to go around snatching up my loved ones.
Luke waved a hand, then rummaged the cart by my bed, pulling out an alcohol wipe. “Enough about me: do they have a decision on what to do with you yet?”
I watched his scarred but nimble fingers wrestle with the package. “Dr. Patel was over in French Lick today. She’s making her way back, and is still debating admitting me or not.”
Scooting closer, Luke nodded as he began to carefully wipe my face clean. “Do you think they should?”
I chewed my lip, tapping the rosary automatically. “I don’t know. I hate to miss classes, but a forced break would be nice. I’m so tired.”
“How many hours do you have this semester?”
I frowned. “18. That’s required to finish the program in 2 years.” My tone may have been a little defensive--people had been trying to get me to quit nursing school since before I had even applied. To me, this was already a compromise from attempting medical school--something I couldn’t do just from the physical aspect of the hours necessary. I had good days and bad days, and one couldn’t afford the latter trying to complete the classes, let alone an internship and residency.
Luke steepled his hands in thought, the wipe hanging down between them. “Do you have to--”
“I really want this.” I broke in quickly, assuming his thoughts. Maybe he only wished me to slow down instead of stop, but either one felt devastating to me. “Even if I can’t be healed myself, I want to help. I want to be part of healing others. To give them back a portion of their life’s quality. This is important to me, Luke.”
He nodded, remaining in his position for what felt like a considerable length of time. He mopped up one last rust-colored path on my cheek. “Even as we all have burdens, we also all have gifts. As much as you might want to do that service, there might be something else waiting for you to hear its call.”
I grabbed his hand, pulling the wipe from it. “What are you trying to say?”
He licked his lips nervously. “I was talking to Grandmother--”
I threw the wipe in his face and crossed my arms, ending up tangled and whimpering in the equipment--and the needle stuck in my arm.
He chuckled and threw it in the trash, standing up to help me straighten out. His smile was much more brotherly over ecclesiastical now. “Seriously, though, she would like to see you. I’m not saying you have to just go live with her permanently, but you’ve already mentioned a break. This could be a good one.”
“Oh...” Arguing internally about following his advice--no more compromises! No more waiting!--I realized the strange tears had started up again. It was a thick oozing that still managed to reach my chin too quickly. Drip. Drip.
Relatively keeping his cool, Luke blotted at my face with a tissue, scrambling to hand it to me and poke his head out of the curtains. “Nurse! Please!”
The authoritative request for attention was answered by a few dutifully bustling ones on the other side. One in particular zeroed in. “Yes! Father?”
I gripped the rosary, not even trying to stop myself anymore. There was busyness and harried discussion around me. Phones calls being placed, orders barked. Luke squeezing my hand that cradled the beads as he watched, interjecting with a prayer.
The IV blew--predictably--with a sudden change in my blood pressure and a poorly laid stab to begin with. The needle flew off, the tubing leaked and sprayed. There were exclamations. A new kit on my bed. Jabs into both arms to find a vein as they all rolled away. A fervent wish from someone that they hadn’t taken out my port when it became infected last year.
Everything became more frantic as they realized skin had opened a few places on my arms as well. They gave up on the line. In a split second, the discussion shifted from whether or not I could cope with the life I wanted to whether or not I could still cope with life at all.
My vision blurred and I blinked, sinking back into the pillow; hollow resignation replaced fretting in my breast as I gave myself over to numerous outcomes. In my chart, there are 8 active prescriptions. Around me, there is one priest and two nurses. Above me, there is one God, thousands of angels, and 23,136 dots.
And we were still an army outnumbered, at the mercy of my one broken body.
no subject
Anyway. This made me choke up, and I don't usually do well with descriptions of blood/gore/hospitals. It's just... she's so resigned. She's been here before, so many times, and she knows how this works, and she's just... tired, and resigned, and wants to be normal, and that... I'm only chronically mentally ill, but it still feels so familiar.
Well done.
no subject
Aw! I feel bad, but I'm glad that came across so well. While I'm not to the point she is, I've been through medical establishments for most of my life due to anemia and what appear to be immune related disorders. I've definitely felt this way, too, whether my symptoms were presenting as physical or mental. Chronic illness: it just does things, man. <3
(Also, spoiler: this is your future vampire queen, in case you were wondering. Vampirism: the new cure for what ails you.)