Two Minutes Can Be a Very Long Time When You're Waiting...
When Really It's Closer Than It Is Too Far
Whoever said that two minutes isn’t a long time needs to seriously reconsider who hears their opinions.
I sit, slumped and slouching, in the hard and uncomfortable body of the hospital chair I fell into hours before. With my mother and father in the hospital room across from me, and my younger siblings hanging around snoring over my Auntie’s lap, I’m basically on my own. Stupid hospital rooms are soundproofed; the only good thing about that is I can’t hear my mothers’ screams as she gives birth to YET another demon child. I’m utterly tired of cleaning up dirty nappies and washing up disgusting baby’s bottles while my parents have their umpteenth lie-in of the week. Doing goodness knows what as I waste my time which could be better spent playing my bass guitar with the rest of my band. Who, undoubtedly, will be having band practice without me – tell me something I don’t know.
If I were to be honestly totally absolutely truthful, I would be saying that I really couldn’t give a monkey’s whether I get a baby sister or a baby brother. I already have two of each and I can’t stand ANY of them. In fact, right now, I don’t care about anyone but myself. This tiny space in time is driving me entirely up the wall and I’d rather it be over fast. And by fast I mean FAST.
My stupid hair flops almost painfully in my eyes and I flick it away, the dirty blonde bangs falling across the side of my face. The green tips are new, and my mother frowns disapprovingly down on them. But, as always, I really couldn’t care less what my mother – and father, for that matter – says to and think about me. Never have and never bloody well ever will. But if only they could understand that.
I look up at the clock and the second hand ticks. It ticks forwards again, and then appears to tick backwards. Groaning, I let my head drop to my hands lazily, and press the palms of my hands into my eye sockets. Little stars erupt in bright colours; blues and greens and yellows as the pitch black of the make-shift background flashes dimly and periodically to a dull shade of grey. To be blunt, this is the most exciting thing I’ve seen since I arrived at this hospital. What a fun day it’s been (note the words are drenched and dripping in heavy sarcasm as I say this).
Like the stars in my eyes, a thought bursts in my head, reminding me of a song I discovered a week ago, whilst (illegally) downloading songs my band and myself could run through, if we were ever fortunate enough to get a gig. I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, and meaning it, but we suck. Plain and simple. And, on that rather sordid note, I am now depressed.
A firebell attracts my attention as I hear the clock finally emit another annoying tick. Time is either dragging too slowly, or my mind is racing because I actually do care. Weighing up the two possibilities, I come to the conclusion that time is dragging.
There’s a girl sitting on the strangely vomit-inducing pale yellow chair opposite me. It annoys me that she has a visually comfortable – by that I mean it looks comfortable because, frankly, the yellow is making me feel rather ill – thing to sit on while I have this wood and plastic thing to rest my now numb cheeks on. Odd combination to make a chair out of but come on, it’s a hospital. What in the hell do they know about comfort and decent combinations?
And back to the girl. She’s boring and plain, by the look of it. Simple as that, just in one glance. She has the dullest shade of brown eyes imaginable; kind of like a cross between the colour of my bas before I customised it with My Chemical Romance stickers, three week old dead leaves, and mouldy chocolate. Okay, now I feel sick again. And her hair! It’s dark chocolaty brown at the roots, fading gradually out until it cascades over her rather manly shoulders in a blanket of a strange auburn colour. To top it off, she’s wearing odd red ear-rings, messy black eye-liner topped with sloppy ORANGE eye-shadow, and a rubbishy black headband with her name in random sparkly coloured glitter. To me, she looks like a pathetic excuse for a typical wannabe chav girl.
After what feels like an hour of vaguely analysing her, she looks up at me. Her fake-tanned cheeks change to a shade of pink my mother would proudly dare to call delicate. Phoebe, as her sickly headband bluntly and pointlessly highlights as her name, flashes me a nervous smile before letting her eyes slowly dart (if possible) back to her crappy bubblegum pink and white Nike Air Max’s.
‘Phoebe’ starts to tug at her hair. Tick, tug, tick, tug. It’s driving me crazy, but it momentarily entertains me, the pattern complicatedly obvious. Oh well. Simple things please simple minds. I count seven in all the time I watch her, until she notices me staring. Phoebe pulls a face as if trying to remember something, before sticking her particularly chest out and twiddling her hair in her fingers. She smiles a pathetically obvious smile she has herself believing in a sexy and flirtatious smile, batting her heavily mascara covered eyelashes in a queer attempt to ‘Woo’ me. I can almost predict what must be going through her pea-sized brain at this moment in time: “Oh wow, he FANCIES me!” Uh huh. In your dreams, honey.
I’m not particularly interested in members of the opposite sex. No, I am not gay, though I do NOT – emphasis on not – have an inkling of hate towards homosexuals, bisexuals and the like. The self proclaimed omniscient chavs at school are doggone discriminative, dubbing me the school ‘gay boy’. They’d drop their best friend if they had even the slightest interest in their same sex, the homophobic lowlifes they are.
I suddenly realize, after all these thoughts settle down from their annoying whirling around my head, it’s been a whole minute and a half since I started thinking, talking to myself and taking in my surroundings, and as this minute and a half drags itself to a close, the handle at the end of the maternity ward rattles, turns and opens, revealing the most amazing and beautiful woman in the world. Ever.
She’s in the traditional stereotypical nurse outfit; a white all-in one dress ending just above the knees and elbows, fastened so you can see enough cleavage to show she’s interested, but not too much to suggest she’s a cheap slut. Not too much make-up surrounding plump glossed lips and sparkling blue eyes. My eyes are generally described as sparkling, but hers are like stars or something. Her hair is a creative mess of blonde ringlets, and she reveals a purple fluffy pen from behind her left ear, to sign a clip-board she’s just been handed by a bored looking receptionist.
Okay, so maybe I have my first crush. On a woman almost certainly twice my minute sixteen years in age whose name I don’t, and will probably never, know. Oh well. At least it’s not a man crush, as my blatantly ignorant and homophobic enemies, friends and family always so judgementally (and arrogantly if I do say so myself) predicted.
The door of my mothers hospital room opens gradually, remaining ajar for a few long seconds, before a tall young doctor strolls solemnly out. His gaze darts around the room sadly, obviously looking for the unlucky person he has to break some heart-breaking news to.
“Willis? Frankie Willis?”
My blood runs cold as I hear those three words that could mean anything. I’m the person who gets the bad news. Oh God.
How ironic.
I sit, slumped and slouching, in the hard and uncomfortable body of the hospital chair I fell into hours before. With my mother and father in the hospital room across from me, and my younger siblings hanging around snoring over my Auntie’s lap, I’m basically on my own. Stupid hospital rooms are soundproofed; the only good thing about that is I can’t hear my mothers’ screams as she gives birth to YET another demon child. I’m utterly tired of cleaning up dirty nappies and washing up disgusting baby’s bottles while my parents have their umpteenth lie-in of the week. Doing goodness knows what as I waste my time which could be better spent playing my bass guitar with the rest of my band. Who, undoubtedly, will be having band practice without me – tell me something I don’t know.
If I were to be honestly totally absolutely truthful, I would be saying that I really couldn’t give a monkey’s whether I get a baby sister or a baby brother. I already have two of each and I can’t stand ANY of them. In fact, right now, I don’t care about anyone but myself. This tiny space in time is driving me entirely up the wall and I’d rather it be over fast. And by fast I mean FAST.
My stupid hair flops almost painfully in my eyes and I flick it away, the dirty blonde bangs falling across the side of my face. The green tips are new, and my mother frowns disapprovingly down on them. But, as always, I really couldn’t care less what my mother – and father, for that matter – says to and think about me. Never have and never bloody well ever will. But if only they could understand that.
I look up at the clock and the second hand ticks. It ticks forwards again, and then appears to tick backwards. Groaning, I let my head drop to my hands lazily, and press the palms of my hands into my eye sockets. Little stars erupt in bright colours; blues and greens and yellows as the pitch black of the make-shift background flashes dimly and periodically to a dull shade of grey. To be blunt, this is the most exciting thing I’ve seen since I arrived at this hospital. What a fun day it’s been (note the words are drenched and dripping in heavy sarcasm as I say this).
Like the stars in my eyes, a thought bursts in my head, reminding me of a song I discovered a week ago, whilst (illegally) downloading songs my band and myself could run through, if we were ever fortunate enough to get a gig. I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, and meaning it, but we suck. Plain and simple. And, on that rather sordid note, I am now depressed.
A firebell attracts my attention as I hear the clock finally emit another annoying tick. Time is either dragging too slowly, or my mind is racing because I actually do care. Weighing up the two possibilities, I come to the conclusion that time is dragging.
There’s a girl sitting on the strangely vomit-inducing pale yellow chair opposite me. It annoys me that she has a visually comfortable – by that I mean it looks comfortable because, frankly, the yellow is making me feel rather ill – thing to sit on while I have this wood and plastic thing to rest my now numb cheeks on. Odd combination to make a chair out of but come on, it’s a hospital. What in the hell do they know about comfort and decent combinations?
And back to the girl. She’s boring and plain, by the look of it. Simple as that, just in one glance. She has the dullest shade of brown eyes imaginable; kind of like a cross between the colour of my bas before I customised it with My Chemical Romance stickers, three week old dead leaves, and mouldy chocolate. Okay, now I feel sick again. And her hair! It’s dark chocolaty brown at the roots, fading gradually out until it cascades over her rather manly shoulders in a blanket of a strange auburn colour. To top it off, she’s wearing odd red ear-rings, messy black eye-liner topped with sloppy ORANGE eye-shadow, and a rubbishy black headband with her name in random sparkly coloured glitter. To me, she looks like a pathetic excuse for a typical wannabe chav girl.
After what feels like an hour of vaguely analysing her, she looks up at me. Her fake-tanned cheeks change to a shade of pink my mother would proudly dare to call delicate. Phoebe, as her sickly headband bluntly and pointlessly highlights as her name, flashes me a nervous smile before letting her eyes slowly dart (if possible) back to her crappy bubblegum pink and white Nike Air Max’s.
‘Phoebe’ starts to tug at her hair. Tick, tug, tick, tug. It’s driving me crazy, but it momentarily entertains me, the pattern complicatedly obvious. Oh well. Simple things please simple minds. I count seven in all the time I watch her, until she notices me staring. Phoebe pulls a face as if trying to remember something, before sticking her particularly chest out and twiddling her hair in her fingers. She smiles a pathetically obvious smile she has herself believing in a sexy and flirtatious smile, batting her heavily mascara covered eyelashes in a queer attempt to ‘Woo’ me. I can almost predict what must be going through her pea-sized brain at this moment in time: “Oh wow, he FANCIES me!” Uh huh. In your dreams, honey.
I’m not particularly interested in members of the opposite sex. No, I am not gay, though I do NOT – emphasis on not – have an inkling of hate towards homosexuals, bisexuals and the like. The self proclaimed omniscient chavs at school are doggone discriminative, dubbing me the school ‘gay boy’. They’d drop their best friend if they had even the slightest interest in their same sex, the homophobic lowlifes they are.
I suddenly realize, after all these thoughts settle down from their annoying whirling around my head, it’s been a whole minute and a half since I started thinking, talking to myself and taking in my surroundings, and as this minute and a half drags itself to a close, the handle at the end of the maternity ward rattles, turns and opens, revealing the most amazing and beautiful woman in the world. Ever.
She’s in the traditional stereotypical nurse outfit; a white all-in one dress ending just above the knees and elbows, fastened so you can see enough cleavage to show she’s interested, but not too much to suggest she’s a cheap slut. Not too much make-up surrounding plump glossed lips and sparkling blue eyes. My eyes are generally described as sparkling, but hers are like stars or something. Her hair is a creative mess of blonde ringlets, and she reveals a purple fluffy pen from behind her left ear, to sign a clip-board she’s just been handed by a bored looking receptionist.
Okay, so maybe I have my first crush. On a woman almost certainly twice my minute sixteen years in age whose name I don’t, and will probably never, know. Oh well. At least it’s not a man crush, as my blatantly ignorant and homophobic enemies, friends and family always so judgementally (and arrogantly if I do say so myself) predicted.
The door of my mothers hospital room opens gradually, remaining ajar for a few long seconds, before a tall young doctor strolls solemnly out. His gaze darts around the room sadly, obviously looking for the unlucky person he has to break some heart-breaking news to.
“Willis? Frankie Willis?”
My blood runs cold as I hear those three words that could mean anything. I’m the person who gets the bad news. Oh God.
How ironic.