Kristian
Just another lazy afternoon
His mom was pacing in the living room. He knew this despite being a floor above, behind several closed doors. Her worry made the air thick. He didn’t even notice that he was holding his breath.
After a few long seconds, he exhaled and swung his bony legs over the edge of the bed. It wasn’t really that he was all that thin. Of course he was ‘clinically-not-at-a-preferable-weight’, according to his unimpressed doctor. But it was really just that his joints were kinda awkward and his bones overgrown.
He looked like someone, who, if a gust of wind was a bit too strong, would break in halves. Or at the very least, would make him fall face-first to the ground.
At first glance he seemed like a petite guy. The one in the back you just forgot about because he didn’t take up much space, or say much of anything. But in reality Kristian was quite tall.
Maybe it was for the best that he was usually overlooked. He didn’t really mind it. Because when ever he was home, all focus was on him. It was like there were eyes on him all the time. His parents had at some point decided to worry about nothing but their son. An obsession- I mean occupation, which they were rather dedicate to.
His room was spacious, with windows on two of the walls, the one facing north (at the front of the house), and to the west. His bed was just under the window on the west-wall. He loved how the late afternoon sun would bathe his room in warm and thick light.
There was a chessboard on the floor, an ongoing battle abandoned. Paintings filled the walls, colourful, thick layers of orange, yellow, and green, mainly. Blue for a cold contrast and shadows, red for even darker shadows.
Beside his easel (by the south-wall) countless blank canvases and half-finished paintings were leaning against the wall, and the carpet was stained with dried oil paint.
Kristian didn’t have any shelves. So stacked under the windows, under the bed, beside the door, (everywhere but by the south wall) were piles of books. Most of them antique or just with pretty covers and bindings. Since his parents read a lot as well, they had a larger collection downstairs. And Kristian had only snatched all the ‘special’ ones, under the justification that they’d somehow aid his ‘recovery’ (the fact that his parents had accepted this excuse so readily still amused him).
But Kristian knew the meaning of words like genetic and chronic. Hell, he even knew the meaning of words like hypotension, arthralgia, and orthostatic intolerance.
It all just meant incurable.
They probably thought he was still asleep. He couldn’t quite recall what he’d been doing before he passed out, but like most of everything else he did, it probably wasn’t of much importance.
He assumed his dad had carried him up here. He was never quite convenient enough to black out in his own room.
Even though he’d told his parents to just let him lie wherever he fell, he always found himself back in his own bed. Door shut, and the entire house completely quiet.
He let his feet tap the carpet a few times, still sitting on the bed. He really did like carpets. They always meant that he was home.
They didn’t have carpets in hospitals.
Fingers pressed against the side of his neck, just below the skull, he concluded his pulse must be around 70 bpm. Which was completely normal, and exactly the number you’d expect. But nothing was as simple as it seemed, and as soon as he shifted his weight to his feet and rose, so did his pulse. It started off peaking at about 100. At 120 he could feel the pressure in his throat and his skull felt like it was going to explode. He imagined his eyes simply popping out of their sockets, blood spraying out of his nose, maybe his skull would even crack. He visualised how the blood would decorate the ceiling and the walls, like red threads connecting all his paintings.
At 150 he could physically see his pulse in his vision. Before it got any higher he simply let himself fall to the floor, knocking over the oblivious chess pieces in the process. After his heart had calmed down again, he started rolling across the carpet, arms flailing above his head enjoying the late sun on his bare skin. Shorts and t-shirts were usually reserved for when his stayed home.
He worked his way across the floor by pushing with his legs. When he made it to the mirror which reached the floor, green eyes stared back at him.
He had some funny looking scars. Not anything big. But the skin was stretched out across them, thin as cigarette paper, indicating poor wound healing. The bones in his elbow and wrist protruded oddly. If he bend his arm, you could see the tendons snap across the bones in his joints. This was why he always wore long sleeves and pants when he went out. His wardrobe consisted mainly of articles of clothing in different nuances of brown and green, most made of linen.
He lifted an arm, inspecting it with unimpressed eyes as he turned it, stretched it out against the ceiling, clenched his hand, then opened his fist again, repeating. He had a finger span like Rachmaninoff.
Groaning at the genetic grotesqueness of his body, he rolled over on the side, eyes clenched shut, back to the mirror. He could feel his ribs pressing against the floor whenever he inhaled.
If fate was a thing. If we were predisposed for a certain life, was this all his amounted to? Art, Chopin playing on repeat from his laptop, obscure characters from his endless collection of books.
No friends.
If anything, he had his imagination.
After a few long seconds, he exhaled and swung his bony legs over the edge of the bed. It wasn’t really that he was all that thin. Of course he was ‘clinically-not-at-a-preferable-weight’, according to his unimpressed doctor. But it was really just that his joints were kinda awkward and his bones overgrown.
He looked like someone, who, if a gust of wind was a bit too strong, would break in halves. Or at the very least, would make him fall face-first to the ground.
At first glance he seemed like a petite guy. The one in the back you just forgot about because he didn’t take up much space, or say much of anything. But in reality Kristian was quite tall.
Maybe it was for the best that he was usually overlooked. He didn’t really mind it. Because when ever he was home, all focus was on him. It was like there were eyes on him all the time. His parents had at some point decided to worry about nothing but their son. An obsession- I mean occupation, which they were rather dedicate to.
His room was spacious, with windows on two of the walls, the one facing north (at the front of the house), and to the west. His bed was just under the window on the west-wall. He loved how the late afternoon sun would bathe his room in warm and thick light.
There was a chessboard on the floor, an ongoing battle abandoned. Paintings filled the walls, colourful, thick layers of orange, yellow, and green, mainly. Blue for a cold contrast and shadows, red for even darker shadows.
Beside his easel (by the south-wall) countless blank canvases and half-finished paintings were leaning against the wall, and the carpet was stained with dried oil paint.
Kristian didn’t have any shelves. So stacked under the windows, under the bed, beside the door, (everywhere but by the south wall) were piles of books. Most of them antique or just with pretty covers and bindings. Since his parents read a lot as well, they had a larger collection downstairs. And Kristian had only snatched all the ‘special’ ones, under the justification that they’d somehow aid his ‘recovery’ (the fact that his parents had accepted this excuse so readily still amused him).
But Kristian knew the meaning of words like genetic and chronic. Hell, he even knew the meaning of words like hypotension, arthralgia, and orthostatic intolerance.
It all just meant incurable.
They probably thought he was still asleep. He couldn’t quite recall what he’d been doing before he passed out, but like most of everything else he did, it probably wasn’t of much importance.
He assumed his dad had carried him up here. He was never quite convenient enough to black out in his own room.
Even though he’d told his parents to just let him lie wherever he fell, he always found himself back in his own bed. Door shut, and the entire house completely quiet.
He let his feet tap the carpet a few times, still sitting on the bed. He really did like carpets. They always meant that he was home.
They didn’t have carpets in hospitals.
Fingers pressed against the side of his neck, just below the skull, he concluded his pulse must be around 70 bpm. Which was completely normal, and exactly the number you’d expect. But nothing was as simple as it seemed, and as soon as he shifted his weight to his feet and rose, so did his pulse. It started off peaking at about 100. At 120 he could feel the pressure in his throat and his skull felt like it was going to explode. He imagined his eyes simply popping out of their sockets, blood spraying out of his nose, maybe his skull would even crack. He visualised how the blood would decorate the ceiling and the walls, like red threads connecting all his paintings.
At 150 he could physically see his pulse in his vision. Before it got any higher he simply let himself fall to the floor, knocking over the oblivious chess pieces in the process. After his heart had calmed down again, he started rolling across the carpet, arms flailing above his head enjoying the late sun on his bare skin. Shorts and t-shirts were usually reserved for when his stayed home.
He worked his way across the floor by pushing with his legs. When he made it to the mirror which reached the floor, green eyes stared back at him.
He had some funny looking scars. Not anything big. But the skin was stretched out across them, thin as cigarette paper, indicating poor wound healing. The bones in his elbow and wrist protruded oddly. If he bend his arm, you could see the tendons snap across the bones in his joints. This was why he always wore long sleeves and pants when he went out. His wardrobe consisted mainly of articles of clothing in different nuances of brown and green, most made of linen.
He lifted an arm, inspecting it with unimpressed eyes as he turned it, stretched it out against the ceiling, clenched his hand, then opened his fist again, repeating. He had a finger span like Rachmaninoff.
Groaning at the genetic grotesqueness of his body, he rolled over on the side, eyes clenched shut, back to the mirror. He could feel his ribs pressing against the floor whenever he inhaled.
If fate was a thing. If we were predisposed for a certain life, was this all his amounted to? Art, Chopin playing on repeat from his laptop, obscure characters from his endless collection of books.
No friends.
If anything, he had his imagination.