He hates this. Hates waking up and staring at the wall cuz that's the only thing he gives a shit about anymore. Which is quite sad, really. He thinks he should probably take some of the pills he keeps handing out to various crack at work. God, bloody Jordan used to say so every day.
i "Pear bear, are you planning on getting that head of yours sorted out today? Or shall I prepare your depression chamber, aka, the sofa by the TV." She'd request in a mock polite voice. All he wanted to do was crawl under the sofa and hide, but instead he'd force out a torrent of bitterness and reply to her.
"Can't be arsed." He'd say it in a deadpan tone, flicking on the TV and trying to pretend he gave a shit about the microwave some dumb broad was advertising. /i
But now there was no Jordan to nag him to do something with his life. God, he wished there was still a Jordan. And he didn't mean the one lying in the graveyard, arms locked around little Jack. He groaned, rolled over and looked at the clock. Bloody hell, it was Sunday! His day off, so why was he up before 10am? Shit……..shit……SHIT. He'd promised to visit the graveyard with Carla. This was, of course, the last thing he wanted to do, as she'd probably drag Ghandi along with her. He'd drag Mary Jane/Susan/Bambi along, and soon the whole damn thing would be like "Make Dr Cox Feel Bad! Day. Remind him that all that ever mattered even SLIGHTLY to him h as left the building! Yippee, what fun!"
No. Freaking. Way. He would have to make an excuse. He had a whole array of diseases he could choose from. Yet he was going to stick with the common cold.
"Carla-"he croaked. But Miss Bossy Boots Know It All was smarter than that.
"Nuh uh Cox, I'm NOT falling for that. You're healthy cuz you were healthy at work yesterday. Ever since Jordan and Jack died we been giving you Sunday off to go visit them and I been getting the feeling you aren't going. Come on Doctor Cox, you never get called in on a Sunday, no matter how much we need you, and this is how you're gonna repay us? I don't think so. Be there at 10 or I'll come round and kick the crap out of you."
The phone clicked as Carla hung up, and he stared at the wall. He decided he quite liked that wall. The others annoyed him. The bright squares of colour stood out against the faded paint, from where he had taken down his pictures of Jordan. There was no point in spending time pining for the dead. This wall was smooth, all the same colour. He liked it a lot. He had figured out only insane people prefer certain walls a while ago, but hey, if he liked the wall, he did. So what? He slowly sat on the floor, switching off the lights on the way down. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and then lay down carefully. His elbow slipped from under him and he snapped to the floor. His eyes watered slightly as he looked up. He wasn't crying because it hurt. He was crying because he couldn't even lie down properly anymore.
He whimpered slightly, staring at a picture that had been banished to the floor a long time ago. He cried out when he saw the young woman, arms around her new husband. Her dress was beautiful, her face radiant. It was one of their wedding, before the accident. He let the picture slip out of his hands and curled up into a ball. The foetal position, he reminded himself. You are a doctor, stop acting like a child and calling things amateur names. A while ago he'd of been disgusted at spending his days lying on the floor and crying over pictures. Pictures, for gods sake! But he couldn't help it.
And he only knows one way to deal with this. And that's to crawl back into bed, and pull the covers over his head, and let the people of the world continue their lives around him. Carla would yell, he would nod blankly and wait for her to leave. He would invent stomach cramps, back pain, anything. Anything to stop him having to see his dreams buried under piles of dirt and worms. When he thought about it, that was hardly appropriate. Somebody's dead so let's pile a ton of crap on them? Didn't seem very respectful.
Today though, he had an urge to do something different. Should he leave the house? He didn't know. As much as he wanted to wallow in his own grief, it wasn't a tempting offer. He looked at the clock. 9:30. Carla would be over soon to kick his ass. "Can't kick my ass if I'm not here." He laughed softly. His lips quirked up, but then they fell again. Smiling seemed so unnatural now. He sighed and pulled on his tracksuit. It was almost falling off him. Got to eat more, he thought to himself. He ran his hands through his hair and picked up a pad of paper. "Now for the final touch!" he said to nobody. He quickly scribbled down something, then ran out of the house, blinking in the sudden sunshine.
He wandered through the park, beginning to regret coming out. There were the two teenagers, kissing on the bench, completely unaware of the pain all around them. He smiled softly, until one looked up and he realised they were both male. And both with at least twelve piercings. He quickened pace a little and came to a baby softly cooing in it's pram. He smiled, and bent down to look, only to have a hand slapped across his face. Hard. A teenage girl stood there, around 15 years old. Her mascara was so thick he was surprised she could see and her skirt ended way before it should.
"Gerroff my daughter ya pervert!" she screamed. Several people looked around. A man he guessed to be about 30 walked over and threw and arm around her shoulder.
"You bothering my girlfriend, mate?" the man yelled. He shuddered and walked away. He saw rows of twisted trees, old men watching children with leers on their faces……….
Wait a minute. Those weren't i leers. /i For gods sake! When did he start seeing grandfathers as perverts and children as unprepared for the hate and pain ahead? There was something wrong with him. There had to be. He began to run, run from all of this. He doesn't know where's he's running to, but then he does. He's running to the road, to the big tarmac road everyone complained about. And he's got tears running down his face because he doesn't want to do this: but then he really does. And in his mind, he needs to. It's the only thing he can do.
"Hey! Perry!" Oh shit, it's Susan. Jenny. Mary-Jane. Who cares what name the weed's got, why is he choosing now? And JD's got Turk and Elliot with him. Oh shit shit shit. He didn't want it like this. They're here, this won't work anymore. "Doctor Cox! Stop running!" Like hell. He doesn't have to listen to Ghandi anymore. He's free, free as a bird. Free to trap himself. He runs even faster, but still not as fast as the tears. "Hey, what's wrong?" And Barbie's acting concerned, like she gives a shit about him, like anyone does. He slips on some leaves and his leg twists. He lets out a cry but he pushes himself through the pain. And now i they're /i following him. He can see a car, a red car, red like blood. His blood. And he's still running…….still running……..and now he's there. And the car doesn't have time to slow and he hits the ground. And he can feel a slim pale hand running through his, and his blurry eyes reveal it to be Barbie. Now that's gonna need disinfecting. And Ghandi's applying pressure to his wounds, blood soaking his stomach. He's just…….staring at him, useless as always. But where's Susan? Oh, there he is.
"I don't care!" he's sobbing into the phone. "Just bring the freaking ambulance! We're applying pressure, we're checking his vitals. Just send it!" he pauses, then his face screws up. Obviously something he doesn't like.
"He's gonna die." Naomi's voice is ice cold, like his world just broke. Huh, what does he know?
And now he can't see it anymore, he can just see the black and hear his own screams. He shudders and takes a breath, probably his last. And his last thought is "I don't even get a tunnel of light?" Then all is quite and he is still.