All We Know Is Falling
Day Six: Not Done Yet.
Sean burst through the emergency doors, people following him, shouting that he shouldn’t go through there. He got to the nearest guy in white coat, grabbed the lapels and blurted out a load of words he tried to string together, crying more and more with each word. Two nurses pulled Sean off of the junior doctor with no experience and no idea what Sean was on about.
The nurses took Sean to one side, and offered him a cup of water, which hepolitely declined with a loud “Do I Look Like I Need Water?”. He got told to be quiet because of the patients, before being led to reception.
“Who are you looking for, Mr…”
“Smith.” He replied dutifully.
“Mr Smith?”
“Ian. Ian Watkins. He was in a house thing… and I don’t know what happened. I saw it on telly, and I need to see him!”
“What relation, Mr Smith?”
“Boyfriend, partner, husband, whatever it takes for me to be let in!”
The receptionists smile slightly faded, but she made the nurse take Mr Smith to see Mr Watkins on floor 2, in the Recovery Room.
Along the walk, Sean dared to ask what Ian was “recovering” from. The nurse looked a bit shifty, as she wondered whether to tell this overly concerned friend. Then again, he was the only person to have turned up, with no family coming even thought it was on public television.
“Well, sir, normally, the recovery room is for those recovering from great loss of blood, or for recovering from a fatal accident. But him being in the recovery room means he’s fine.”
He words bleached into Sean’s mind. They burnt like acid as he struggled to digest what the nurse said. Fatal? Didn’t that mean someone had… died? And this nurse was saying Ian was alright?
The nurse led Sean into the small and shiny white room. She instructed Sean to wear a face mask, to cover his mouth, as Ian may be very weak. She also told him to cover his hands in the alcohol gel which burned against the little bits in his nails where he had bitten them in worry when driving to the hospital. She told him to not wake Ian up because they didn’t know what to expect, and to call the doctor if he did wake up, as she pointed to the red button on the wall.
Sean walked in, seeing his boyfriend wrapped up in blankets. Wires trailed over his body like paths on an island; they covered every part of him as they probed into his body, invading Ian’s mind and blood. Intravenous Veins reached into Ian, pumping blood into him at an alarming rate. A machine on the side with pads attached to Ian’s chest told Sean that Ian’s heart rate was low, but he was alive.
Sean roamed the room letting his eyes rest on everything. He had his hands in his pockets as he felt out of place in this tidy room. He looked at his boyfriend, lying there in a white bliss-like state, no emotion spreading across his lips or his closed eyelids or any part of him, until eventually Sean reached the bottom of the bed, reaching out for the metal clipboard curved over the bed post. Sean picked it up and flicked through the medical sheets of what was being pumped into Ian, before reaching the last sheet:
Ian Watkins, name known from ID in pocket.
Collapsed building. Fire from gas stored (research).
Found Unconscious at 18:56.
Damage to left calf muscle and right arm and hand through shattered glass.
Self-Induced Mild Coma, recovery fromsmoke-related lung damage burn damage to throat and loss of blood .
Resuscitated At 19:17.
Sean felt tears burn his eyes as they fought to roll down his cheeks. As they did break the surface tension, he slumped to the floor, the clipboard falling form his hands and skidding across the floor as he brought his hands to his face, hot tears escaping from his eyes. He fought to keep back sobs in fear of waking Ian but he couldn’t help it. His lips opened and cries came out. He snivelled, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand to stop the tears, but it didn’t work. He let his body fall on the floor, slamming his fists onto the tiles in frustration.
The nurse standing outside watching Sean’s body fall to the floor and watched him crying through the small window in the door pulled it open, her own tears hot in her eyes. She pulled the man up and sat him on the chair, putting her arms around his neck and rubbing his back to calm him down. She got cut short when the mans cry cut short, a gasp being emitted instead. She looked at him as words failed him, as he pointed to Ian’s lips move.
Inside his mind, Ian was fighting a battle with every living thing inside him. He could hear his Sean crying, and all he wanted to do was say he was fine. He fought to open his lips, instead moving them slightly as if to tell his body it was okay to do so. He felt heavy and as he tried to move his hand, he realised it was bandaged up, feeling the tightness in his arm. He tried to open his mouth again, this time getting it a bit more open. He worked and worked with his throat, even though it felt sore and tight, and he felt an IV line in his neck.
“Don’t cry…” was all Ian managed to whimper before he felt his mind blackout again.
Sean stood up, pressing the HELP button as the machine next to Ian buzzed. The nurse ran out of the door, shouting, “Relapse!” as Sean was led out of the room, to be told to wait in a small room. Tears were hot in his eyes but he bit back the lump in his throat. Don’t cry.
The nurses took Sean to one side, and offered him a cup of water, which hepolitely declined with a loud “Do I Look Like I Need Water?”. He got told to be quiet because of the patients, before being led to reception.
“Who are you looking for, Mr…”
“Smith.” He replied dutifully.
“Mr Smith?”
“Ian. Ian Watkins. He was in a house thing… and I don’t know what happened. I saw it on telly, and I need to see him!”
“What relation, Mr Smith?”
“Boyfriend, partner, husband, whatever it takes for me to be let in!”
The receptionists smile slightly faded, but she made the nurse take Mr Smith to see Mr Watkins on floor 2, in the Recovery Room.
Along the walk, Sean dared to ask what Ian was “recovering” from. The nurse looked a bit shifty, as she wondered whether to tell this overly concerned friend. Then again, he was the only person to have turned up, with no family coming even thought it was on public television.
“Well, sir, normally, the recovery room is for those recovering from great loss of blood, or for recovering from a fatal accident. But him being in the recovery room means he’s fine.”
He words bleached into Sean’s mind. They burnt like acid as he struggled to digest what the nurse said. Fatal? Didn’t that mean someone had… died? And this nurse was saying Ian was alright?
The nurse led Sean into the small and shiny white room. She instructed Sean to wear a face mask, to cover his mouth, as Ian may be very weak. She also told him to cover his hands in the alcohol gel which burned against the little bits in his nails where he had bitten them in worry when driving to the hospital. She told him to not wake Ian up because they didn’t know what to expect, and to call the doctor if he did wake up, as she pointed to the red button on the wall.
Sean walked in, seeing his boyfriend wrapped up in blankets. Wires trailed over his body like paths on an island; they covered every part of him as they probed into his body, invading Ian’s mind and blood. Intravenous Veins reached into Ian, pumping blood into him at an alarming rate. A machine on the side with pads attached to Ian’s chest told Sean that Ian’s heart rate was low, but he was alive.
Sean roamed the room letting his eyes rest on everything. He had his hands in his pockets as he felt out of place in this tidy room. He looked at his boyfriend, lying there in a white bliss-like state, no emotion spreading across his lips or his closed eyelids or any part of him, until eventually Sean reached the bottom of the bed, reaching out for the metal clipboard curved over the bed post. Sean picked it up and flicked through the medical sheets of what was being pumped into Ian, before reaching the last sheet:
Ian Watkins, name known from ID in pocket.
Collapsed building. Fire from gas stored (research).
Found Unconscious at 18:56.
Damage to left calf muscle and right arm and hand through shattered glass.
Self-Induced Mild Coma, recovery fromsmoke-related lung damage burn damage to throat and loss of blood .
Resuscitated At 19:17.
Sean felt tears burn his eyes as they fought to roll down his cheeks. As they did break the surface tension, he slumped to the floor, the clipboard falling form his hands and skidding across the floor as he brought his hands to his face, hot tears escaping from his eyes. He fought to keep back sobs in fear of waking Ian but he couldn’t help it. His lips opened and cries came out. He snivelled, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand to stop the tears, but it didn’t work. He let his body fall on the floor, slamming his fists onto the tiles in frustration.
The nurse standing outside watching Sean’s body fall to the floor and watched him crying through the small window in the door pulled it open, her own tears hot in her eyes. She pulled the man up and sat him on the chair, putting her arms around his neck and rubbing his back to calm him down. She got cut short when the mans cry cut short, a gasp being emitted instead. She looked at him as words failed him, as he pointed to Ian’s lips move.
Inside his mind, Ian was fighting a battle with every living thing inside him. He could hear his Sean crying, and all he wanted to do was say he was fine. He fought to open his lips, instead moving them slightly as if to tell his body it was okay to do so. He felt heavy and as he tried to move his hand, he realised it was bandaged up, feeling the tightness in his arm. He tried to open his mouth again, this time getting it a bit more open. He worked and worked with his throat, even though it felt sore and tight, and he felt an IV line in his neck.
“Don’t cry…” was all Ian managed to whimper before he felt his mind blackout again.
Sean stood up, pressing the HELP button as the machine next to Ian buzzed. The nurse ran out of the door, shouting, “Relapse!” as Sean was led out of the room, to be told to wait in a small room. Tears were hot in his eyes but he bit back the lump in his throat. Don’t cry.