I do not own Ratched.
I do not own Huck. But I adore him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again
Huck Finnigan Goes For a Stroll
It's time for him to go now.
He's been rested and tended and rewrapped.
Nurse Bucket . . .
". . . as long as you like, Huck. Your job will be here when you get back if you want it. I just . . . I just . . . We're just so grateful . . . I just can't . . ."
. . . paying him an oddly emotional visit.
Which he has tried to manage.
"Thank you, Nurse Bucket. I appreciate that."
As best as he can.
"How is Ms. Wells?"
The whip-thin woman's face is a mystery.
"She is . . . resting."
And he figures that's all he really needs to concern himself with.
For now.
"Now you go home and rest, Huck Finnigan. Rest as long as you like, you dear boy, you. I mean, uh, man. I mean . . ."
"Thank you, Nurse Bucket."
And so it is time to go.
The only problem is . . .
I suppose the walk will do me good.
. . . he has no way to get there.
The bus has already run today.
Cabs cost money he doesn't have.
And Huck Finnigan owns no car.
The day is clear and blue outside his second story window.
The tang of the salt water will clear his sinuses.
And hopefully give him the energy he'll need to make the trek.
He's already found that jerky movements send stabs of pain through his wounded shoulder.
So he's going to have to take his time, smooth and easy.
At least it's not the Western Front.
He'll be fine.
It is almost unnervingly quiet as Huck makes his way out of St. Lucia.
The residents are almost ghostlike this morning.
Nurses and orderlies about their business with heads down and countenances closed.
No one crosses his path and he pretends he isn't looking for Nurse Ratched.
Or Grace.
It's just as well though because neither of them have appeared by the time he reaches the front door.
And . . .
"Goodbye, William Holden."
"Goodbye, Mrs. Kee. And it's Huck, Mrs. Kee. Remember?"
"Of course."
"Goodbye, Mrs. Kee."
"Goodbye, William Holden."
. . . closes it behind him.
He's gingerly brought himself down the steps.
This is going to take a while.
And headed off down the gravel driveway.
Casting a curious gaze to the barn where Dr. Hanover and his barnyard animals were planning on restoring the mental well-being of their patients through animal care and contact.
I wonder if that could really work. Cows and horses mending the fractured minds and souls.
Past the hotsprings . . .
Boiled her. Boiled her like a lobster.
. . . that remind him of the hydrotherapy room that seemed more like a torture chamber by the time Nurse Bucket had finished her wicked treatment of poor Ms. Cartwright.
And he cannot manage to quicken pace past it.
Because every step alright is a punishment to his healing . . .
One step at a time. One step at a time.
And don't lose your lunch.
. . . shoulder.
He makes it almost to the end of the drive, energy waning and shoulder throbbing.
Forehead covered in a thin sheen of perspiration, even in this moderately temperature day.
Deciding he will allow himself a rest stop once he's past the driveway and out on the road.
Deciding he will do his best to not vomit on the side of the road like a hobo.
But that he really can't promise anything.
Not even to himself.
But he's gonna make a valiant effort.
And, one way or another . . .
At least I don't think I'll step on a mortar shell along the way.
. . . he'll make it home.
And then, as he is about to decide it's time to sit down and breathe deep with his head down . . .
"Well, hello. Fancy seeing you here."
. . . a car stops along the road.
"Escaped from the mental hospital, have you?"
And Huck Finnigan is greeted by a friendly face.
"Oh. Hello."
Now, now. I wonder who that friendly face may be. ;)
Thanks to DinahRay for graciously keeping up with this story. I very much appreciate you, my friend!
