HE SLEEPS by purpleyin

Feedback appreciated negative or positive, the truth sometimes hurts but tact is just not saying anything. Written when season 8(?) was airing. About Dave Malucci. Could be set at any point though. No spoilers for any episode as far as I can tell, it's a total standalone piece.

Archiving: maybe, please ask me first because I'd want to know where it was going

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to ER or any characters there within. The people/companies who own it know who they are. I am making zero nada profit from this and all I ask is humour my use of those I've borrowed. It's for fan satisfaction after all. Besides I'm not rich. Suing me would be so useless.

And the poem is mine.


Truth and lies
Reality put into disguise
Make of it what you want
However none of us know anything
Who knows of existence
And without out that what use is truth to us
If that means no one cares for it
It dies and we forget the grave to worship it at
A sunny November morning in the cemetery
I can only see 2 people
And 1's peering at the name, unsure of his place


He wakes up just before he usually does, the alarm still a memory in his head not yet said in the actual world.
His eyes remain closed.

He imagines a beautiful girl lying beside him and that he'll roll over and kiss her and open his eyes to hers. No matter what colour they are all he needs is to know he loves her.

But his eyes are met with harsh light of the bulb still glowing of the light he forgot to turn off. He rolls over knowing no one's there by the cold spot, the warmth was just a wish his mind made up.

And what he awoke to was a brown mucky ceiling of his average one room flat with that familiar dank smell that you'll never find out what it is. And the sheets probably needed a wash soon but he was never good at that and he doesn't own a washer, so it's down to the lawndromat.

His breakfast, he'd be lucky, it's a donut or burger at work, around noon if he's lucky or midnight on other days. So early or late he doesn't bother with names but food's food and he doesn't get enough. Oh sure the job pays well enough but not quite enough, all those med school loans from not really quite official sources and this flat's overrated and then there's bills, for mostly what he doesn't use.

He wonders where it goes but seems ok because after all he's never home and one day there'll be a lot of money left. And he'll still be working with no time to spend it, no time to spend with anyone let alone a fat wallet (he wishes) or a pretty girl.

Why so hard, for him, why? Shouldn't he be able to find just one and he needs only one who likes him. Then they'd get to know him and they'd both find they liked each other but where was she right now. Ironic though that he'd probably find her there and there again another day; or somewhere much the same.

He'll have to get up now but the blankets warm and it's the only warmth he's got, familiarity and he's afraid to let go.