Wrong or Right
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters. they belong to Warner Brothers and the creators of ER!
Author's Note: This is my first attempt in English. I'm not a native speaker so please be patient, if some grammar or some words are wrong, or if there would be better ways to express something. I just wanted to share my ideas with a larger audience. So please read it and review. I would really like to know what you think about it.
The song in the story is from Lutricia McNeal "Wrong or Right"
************************************************
How come every picture on the evening news
always leads you to....someone dying
************************************************
We are both sitting next to each other and watching TV, waiting for the evening news to start. It's a routine we've been keeping up for two weeks. First he was lying in his bed and I was sitting beside him. Now he is already sitting himself, but still in his bed though. We are just sitting there and staring at the TV, both having our own thoughts. But we are doing it together, and that's the thing, that really counts.
For the last two weeks, since he has returned from the Congo, hurt and forced to lie in a hospital bed, we have been keeping up this routine, maybe to keep ourselves up, to have something left to hold on to. Every night after my shift I've been taking the elevator to the 4th floor. I always walk down to his room, saying hallo to the nurse that has just started her night shift, then I knock at the door, wait for his dark and deep voice and then I enter. I take a seat and start to tell him what's going on in the ER, what's going on in my life. But to be honest, at the moment my life doesn't consist of much more then the work in the ER and visiting him, it isn't anything else but days repeating themselves, getting the time over without thinking to much. And then I ask him, how he is doing, how the food tasted or if he already knows, when he can go home. I try to support him, to reassure him that he looks better each day, that it won't be long any more, because sitting or lying there without anything to do makes him depressive. "I want to do something. I can even imagine to work in that damn place down there again", he says. And every day I try to smile and say the same phrase: "It won't be long any more. You have to give your body time to heal." And that's usually the time, when he turns away, turns on the TV and we both wait for the news to watch. And there it is. The melody that's known everywhere, that catches the attention of every viewer: The nation-wide evening news are starting. Full of new stories, of scandals, of wars, of suffering people, at the end some sports, some weather, some gossip. And in between all these commercials, people telling us what would be good for us. As if they had the slightest idea, what I need. And as expected, as each and every evening, they start with American politics, with economy, with things that on the one hand affect all of us, but on the other don't touch me at all. Should I be concerned about our president's actions, if there are so many things to care for in my own surroundings, with my family, my life, my love life.if I can still call it that. Sure, fact is, that I love him, but I don't know if he still loves me and that's what tortures me, what chases me, what follows me in every second of the day, even every second of the night. Dreams are little lives inside. I have to experience that each and every night since he has left. And then, after some minutes of our own politics, that some might consider the most important thing in the world, they switch to some short reports about foreign affairs, about what's happening abroad, in Europe, in Australia, in South America, in Asia. and finally..in Africa. And that's the moment when I always want to take away the remote control from him, when I simply want to grab it and change the channel as soon as possible. Because I can't bear it, I can't stand all those poor people, those crying faces, those small and ill children and especially all those obvious tensions that put everybody's life there in danger. I can't imagine somebody.him being there, fighting for the others life and unfortunately probably not fighting for his own life first. And suddenly, as I stare at the pictures like hypnotized, this day, these evening news turn out to be even worse. This day, they have a special report with facts and background informations, that's what they say, that's what they speaker announces. A report about the Congo, the Civil War there. I see poor people again, children with their dark and generous eyes.steadily reminding me of his eyes..I see people with guns shooting at each other, I see people hiding behind trees, rocks or in houses.steadily reminding me of him.I see UNO workers fighting for peace, I see aid workers, doctors and nurses, fighting for people's lives and against all these illnesses.steadily reminding me of him. Everything is filmed by some brave reporters, that every average person would just consider crazy for putting themselves in such danger. And that's what I do, too, by the way. I close my eyes for a short moment, trying to erase all those pictures from my mind and trying to hold back the tears that come together in my eyes and try to run down my cheeks. I bite my lips to hide these feeling, so that he won't see that, so that he won't be concerned too much. Because he already is in some way, as he feels guilty and is concerned himself. "You weren't responsible" is what I always tell him, when I want to calm him down. But in fact I need somebody to calm me down myself. But I never let him feel that. It's not good for his healing process is what I always try to imply to myself. Suddenly I feel a hand taking mine, his fingers are gently touching my fingers. That's new. That's not the routine. That wasn't what I had planned, when I came into his room half an hour ago. And then I open my eyes, looking at the blue linoleum floor of this small sterile hospital room. And the moment I open them, I regret it, feeling a tear running down my cheeks. Now he is really holding my hand. Although the TV is still on, I hear him taking a deep breath. Then with his deep voice and his typical accent he says: "He will be okay. He will come back."
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters. they belong to Warner Brothers and the creators of ER!
Author's Note: This is my first attempt in English. I'm not a native speaker so please be patient, if some grammar or some words are wrong, or if there would be better ways to express something. I just wanted to share my ideas with a larger audience. So please read it and review. I would really like to know what you think about it.
The song in the story is from Lutricia McNeal "Wrong or Right"
************************************************
How come every picture on the evening news
always leads you to....someone dying
************************************************
We are both sitting next to each other and watching TV, waiting for the evening news to start. It's a routine we've been keeping up for two weeks. First he was lying in his bed and I was sitting beside him. Now he is already sitting himself, but still in his bed though. We are just sitting there and staring at the TV, both having our own thoughts. But we are doing it together, and that's the thing, that really counts.
For the last two weeks, since he has returned from the Congo, hurt and forced to lie in a hospital bed, we have been keeping up this routine, maybe to keep ourselves up, to have something left to hold on to. Every night after my shift I've been taking the elevator to the 4th floor. I always walk down to his room, saying hallo to the nurse that has just started her night shift, then I knock at the door, wait for his dark and deep voice and then I enter. I take a seat and start to tell him what's going on in the ER, what's going on in my life. But to be honest, at the moment my life doesn't consist of much more then the work in the ER and visiting him, it isn't anything else but days repeating themselves, getting the time over without thinking to much. And then I ask him, how he is doing, how the food tasted or if he already knows, when he can go home. I try to support him, to reassure him that he looks better each day, that it won't be long any more, because sitting or lying there without anything to do makes him depressive. "I want to do something. I can even imagine to work in that damn place down there again", he says. And every day I try to smile and say the same phrase: "It won't be long any more. You have to give your body time to heal." And that's usually the time, when he turns away, turns on the TV and we both wait for the news to watch. And there it is. The melody that's known everywhere, that catches the attention of every viewer: The nation-wide evening news are starting. Full of new stories, of scandals, of wars, of suffering people, at the end some sports, some weather, some gossip. And in between all these commercials, people telling us what would be good for us. As if they had the slightest idea, what I need. And as expected, as each and every evening, they start with American politics, with economy, with things that on the one hand affect all of us, but on the other don't touch me at all. Should I be concerned about our president's actions, if there are so many things to care for in my own surroundings, with my family, my life, my love life.if I can still call it that. Sure, fact is, that I love him, but I don't know if he still loves me and that's what tortures me, what chases me, what follows me in every second of the day, even every second of the night. Dreams are little lives inside. I have to experience that each and every night since he has left. And then, after some minutes of our own politics, that some might consider the most important thing in the world, they switch to some short reports about foreign affairs, about what's happening abroad, in Europe, in Australia, in South America, in Asia. and finally..in Africa. And that's the moment when I always want to take away the remote control from him, when I simply want to grab it and change the channel as soon as possible. Because I can't bear it, I can't stand all those poor people, those crying faces, those small and ill children and especially all those obvious tensions that put everybody's life there in danger. I can't imagine somebody.him being there, fighting for the others life and unfortunately probably not fighting for his own life first. And suddenly, as I stare at the pictures like hypnotized, this day, these evening news turn out to be even worse. This day, they have a special report with facts and background informations, that's what they say, that's what they speaker announces. A report about the Congo, the Civil War there. I see poor people again, children with their dark and generous eyes.steadily reminding me of his eyes..I see people with guns shooting at each other, I see people hiding behind trees, rocks or in houses.steadily reminding me of him.I see UNO workers fighting for peace, I see aid workers, doctors and nurses, fighting for people's lives and against all these illnesses.steadily reminding me of him. Everything is filmed by some brave reporters, that every average person would just consider crazy for putting themselves in such danger. And that's what I do, too, by the way. I close my eyes for a short moment, trying to erase all those pictures from my mind and trying to hold back the tears that come together in my eyes and try to run down my cheeks. I bite my lips to hide these feeling, so that he won't see that, so that he won't be concerned too much. Because he already is in some way, as he feels guilty and is concerned himself. "You weren't responsible" is what I always tell him, when I want to calm him down. But in fact I need somebody to calm me down myself. But I never let him feel that. It's not good for his healing process is what I always try to imply to myself. Suddenly I feel a hand taking mine, his fingers are gently touching my fingers. That's new. That's not the routine. That wasn't what I had planned, when I came into his room half an hour ago. And then I open my eyes, looking at the blue linoleum floor of this small sterile hospital room. And the moment I open them, I regret it, feeling a tear running down my cheeks. Now he is really holding my hand. Although the TV is still on, I hear him taking a deep breath. Then with his deep voice and his typical accent he says: "He will be okay. He will come back."