It Makes All the Difference
*~*~*~
Chapter Two
*~*~*~
Sometimes it came at night, and he couldn't stop it. Sometimes the rhyme would run through his mind, over and over again, until it became a mantra of sorts, something of epic proportions. Sometimes it did that. Sometimes it just became a part of him, as much of him as his legs were, or, rather, as much as his heart was. Sometimes he was it, and it was him, and they would rhyme endlessly, until he awakened from sleep, or until he came to.
Sometimes he didn't know how long it came, how long the rhyme took to dispel from him. Sometimes he didn't know that. Sometimes he wondered if he stayed awake for hours, just chanting over and over, over and over, until he was locked out from his rhyme and stabilized in the darkness that he could not name.
Sometimes he thought about the rhyme. Sometimes he wondered what the words were. He couldn't remember all the words; half the time he couldn't remember any words at all. It was a treasure locked on the other side of a heavy plywood door that was locked with a bar and padlock. Sometimes he thought he heard the rhyme in his mind, sometimes it was always there, and at other times, it was nothing but a misty memory on a cloudy day.
Sometimes he wondered if all the wondering was driving him insane.
*~*~*~ *~*~*~
The feeling was dampness and prickling in his arm. He was lying on something, something soft and somehow not steady. A headache throbbed behind his temples. His eyes were shut and the blackness of his eyelids was comforting. Sounds drifted around him, and he heard words, but he couldn't decipher them or puzzle out their meaning. They were the treasure of the other side of the padlocked door.
He opened his eyes.
The room was white and with his eyesight returned his sense of hearing. People were yelling and something next to him was bleeping away madly. He was staring at the ceiling, a heavy pockmarked ceiling that had one day long ago known the feeling of cleanliness, but now was acne scared. His head still pounding, he craned his neck to the side and looked out.
He was in a hospital.
Sudden panic overtook him, and he started to thrash. Hospitals were danger signs. They were signs that something was wrong. Shaking his head, he tried to call out, but his throat felt constricted.
"Sir!"
He suddenly calmed as hand touched his cheek and he looked up. A woman was feeling his head, staring down at him compassionately.
"What happened?" he croaked, trying out his voice.
"You fainted, sir," said the nurse calmly and serenely, grabbing his wrist. He looked down at his arm. An IV was trailing from it to the IV stand, where something white and misty dripped into his arm. Just what he needed, to be drug high.
"Did I?" he asked dazedly, staring at the IV drip with a morbid fascination.
"Yes, sir, you did. Do you remember the fire and the storm?"
"Storm?"
"Yes, there a bad storm. Lightening struck a building in the city without a lightening rod. You don't have any burn marks on you, sir. We assumed that you must have witnessed it, or the smoke made you pass out. The smoke was the building was quite heavy."
"Am I hurt?" he asked, still gazing at the IV drip.
"No, sir, not badly," said the nurse, finishing with his pulse and starting to grab a chart. "Smoke inhalation and some scrapes and bruises, but nothing too serious. You can be going as soon as the doctor comes to see you."
"How long will that take?"
"I'm not sure, sir." The nurse bit her lip and looked around. He could still hear screams and shouts for equipment and help. "A lot of people were badly injured in the fire. The preliminary reports say there are at least fifty dead and scores injured. Your injuries in comparison are quite small. Most of the injured were brought to this hospital. You may have to wait awhile before a doctor is free to see you."
"Oh." He stared forward. "Well, I hope you help those other people."
The nurse smiled gently. "Is there anything I can get you, sir? How do you feel?"
"I've got a killer headache," he said truthfully. "And my throat feels horrible. But mainly that's it."
"I will get you some aspirin." The nurse smiled at him again. "Anything to drink?"
"Water."
"I'll be back shortly, sir." Dropping his clipboard back into the slot at the end of his bed, she moved away. He was left alone with his own thoughts.
He tried to sit up. Vertigo clawed at him and he swooned, dropping back down to his pillow. The feathery softness was welcoming. He closed his eyes in pressuring pain as the headache returned. Bad headaches were common with him. He wondered why he had fainted.
Shock? Smoke? Something more?
Suddenly he felt cold sweat break out on his forehead.
He couldn't remember anything exactly, nothing at all. But he remembered the frantic cries. The desperate pleas for help. The cries to God to forgive sins and help His children. He remembered the roughness of the ground, the leaping, orange flames, and the scorching heat.
He remembered being helpless. He remembered being witness to a crime trial taking place within the thoughts of another person.
"Hey, young fellow."
He started. An old woman, whose bed was next to his, had yanked back the curtain separating her space from his, and was beaming at him. Her face was jolly and almost toothless. Wrinkles spread across her face, and her eyes were worn. But now she was cheery.
He stared at her. He remembered prayers to Mary.
"Quite a shocker," the woman started to ramble. He blindly took in an IV dripping something into her arm, and a bottle of pills on her bedside table, spilled open, cap on the floor. Her white, wispy hair was plastered with sweat against her own soaked pillow. A cast was on her arm, and her leg elevated. "I'm just glad I was here before the party got in. All these poor young fellows burned at the cursed nightclub. But God does say evil resides in those clubs."
He remembered a man named Allen and a woman named Marie.
"Well, son, what's your name? You look a bit rustled." She stuck out her hand, oblivious to the fact that her scrawny, bony hand was more than five feet away from his bed. "My name's Judy. Born and bred in the heart of Texas." She suddenly bellowed laughter. "And you're probably wondering what a good old Texas girl is doing out here in God's forsaken frontier. Ooh, you don't pass one by old Judy. People call me crazy." She leaned forward as if to pass on a secret. He stared blankly. "But I'll tell you I'm just whimsical and know that God is taking his faithful on up to heaven soon.
"I tell you because you look like such a nice young fellow. By the way, fella, what's your name? My name's Judy."
He remembered kids and somebody named Greg, and God's name cried again and again.
"Fella? What's your name?"
"Ranger." He flopped back against the pillow and suddenly brought his hands to his face, shielding his eyes, and curling into a fetal position, his vision blurring together messily. "My name's . . . Ranger."
Judy looked at him. "That's a strange name, fella. Judy ain't great, but Ranger is abnormal." She stared at him through hollow eyes abruptly. "You ain't a work of Satan, are you? God says those who come from he are evil and despicable. You ain't a work of Satan, are you, Mr. Ranger? I'd be the unlucky soul to tell you that you're damned."
He didn't answer through his fingers. His head ached too much, throbbed too dully, the blood in his ears pounded too hard. Judy was crazy as the wicked witch of the East.
"Are ya?" she persisted. "Don't be afraid to tell old Judy, dearie. Confession leads to salvation."
*Chris. My name is Chris!*
He wanted to scream at her, yell at her, blow her crazy ass all the way up to Jupiter and maybe even further. She was a bug, a bug that deserved to be crushed, an icky mess on his shoe, an "oh, shit, I got crap on my shoe" expression. She deserved it because his headache was coming back, and she was crazy as hell.
"Confession is the way to salvation, young man. Confess now, sir. You'll be happy."
Goddamn harpy, took to many pills, and got high on morphine. Goddamn fanatic, thought God was in the messages, didn't see the forest, saw trees, and DAMN THOSE TREES!
"Young man! Listen to me!"
Judy, go to hell, you goddamn CRAZY ASS FOOL FULL OF SHIT!
He suddenly screamed.
Judy went silent and gaped at him as he screamed, thrashing on the bed. She suddenly started to yell. "HELP! HE'S GOING CRAZY! HELP!"
Suddenly orderlies were attacking him, driving him to the bed, piling up against him, easing him to calm down. He kept screaming and past their driven white uniforms and his screams, he saw something.
He saw a woman, staring at him, her ashen face fallen in sadness, her black hair drooping around her face.
He saw blue and black and filtering darkness.
On the distant horizon, he thought he heard music.
Sometimes it came at night, and he couldn't stop it. Sometimes the rhyme would run through his mind, over and over again, until it became a mantra of sorts, something of epic proportions. Sometimes it did that. Sometimes it just became a part of him, as much of him as his legs were, or, rather, as much as his heart was. Sometimes he was it, and it was him, and they would rhyme endlessly, until he awakened from sleep, or until he came to.
Sometimes he didn't know how long it came, how long the rhyme took to dispel from him. Sometimes he didn't know that. Sometimes he wondered if he stayed awake for hours, just chanting over and over, over and over, until he was locked out from his rhyme and stabilized in the darkness that he could not name.
Sometimes he thought about the rhyme. Sometimes he wondered what the words were. He couldn't remember all the words; half the time he couldn't remember any words at all. It was a treasure locked on the other side of a heavy plywood door that was locked with a bar and padlock. Sometimes he thought he heard the rhyme in his mind, sometimes it was always there, and at other times, it was nothing but a misty memory on a cloudy day.
Sometimes he wondered if all the wondering was driving him insane.
*~*~*~ *~*~*~
The feeling was dampness and prickling in his arm. He was lying on something, something soft and somehow not steady. A headache throbbed behind his temples. His eyes were shut and the blackness of his eyelids was comforting. Sounds drifted around him, and he heard words, but he couldn't decipher them or puzzle out their meaning. They were the treasure of the other side of the padlocked door.
He opened his eyes.
The room was white and with his eyesight returned his sense of hearing. People were yelling and something next to him was bleeping away madly. He was staring at the ceiling, a heavy pockmarked ceiling that had one day long ago known the feeling of cleanliness, but now was acne scared. His head still pounding, he craned his neck to the side and looked out.
He was in a hospital.
Sudden panic overtook him, and he started to thrash. Hospitals were danger signs. They were signs that something was wrong. Shaking his head, he tried to call out, but his throat felt constricted.
"Sir!"
He suddenly calmed as hand touched his cheek and he looked up. A woman was feeling his head, staring down at him compassionately.
"What happened?" he croaked, trying out his voice.
"You fainted, sir," said the nurse calmly and serenely, grabbing his wrist. He looked down at his arm. An IV was trailing from it to the IV stand, where something white and misty dripped into his arm. Just what he needed, to be drug high.
"Did I?" he asked dazedly, staring at the IV drip with a morbid fascination.
"Yes, sir, you did. Do you remember the fire and the storm?"
"Storm?"
"Yes, there a bad storm. Lightening struck a building in the city without a lightening rod. You don't have any burn marks on you, sir. We assumed that you must have witnessed it, or the smoke made you pass out. The smoke was the building was quite heavy."
"Am I hurt?" he asked, still gazing at the IV drip.
"No, sir, not badly," said the nurse, finishing with his pulse and starting to grab a chart. "Smoke inhalation and some scrapes and bruises, but nothing too serious. You can be going as soon as the doctor comes to see you."
"How long will that take?"
"I'm not sure, sir." The nurse bit her lip and looked around. He could still hear screams and shouts for equipment and help. "A lot of people were badly injured in the fire. The preliminary reports say there are at least fifty dead and scores injured. Your injuries in comparison are quite small. Most of the injured were brought to this hospital. You may have to wait awhile before a doctor is free to see you."
"Oh." He stared forward. "Well, I hope you help those other people."
The nurse smiled gently. "Is there anything I can get you, sir? How do you feel?"
"I've got a killer headache," he said truthfully. "And my throat feels horrible. But mainly that's it."
"I will get you some aspirin." The nurse smiled at him again. "Anything to drink?"
"Water."
"I'll be back shortly, sir." Dropping his clipboard back into the slot at the end of his bed, she moved away. He was left alone with his own thoughts.
He tried to sit up. Vertigo clawed at him and he swooned, dropping back down to his pillow. The feathery softness was welcoming. He closed his eyes in pressuring pain as the headache returned. Bad headaches were common with him. He wondered why he had fainted.
Shock? Smoke? Something more?
Suddenly he felt cold sweat break out on his forehead.
He couldn't remember anything exactly, nothing at all. But he remembered the frantic cries. The desperate pleas for help. The cries to God to forgive sins and help His children. He remembered the roughness of the ground, the leaping, orange flames, and the scorching heat.
He remembered being helpless. He remembered being witness to a crime trial taking place within the thoughts of another person.
"Hey, young fellow."
He started. An old woman, whose bed was next to his, had yanked back the curtain separating her space from his, and was beaming at him. Her face was jolly and almost toothless. Wrinkles spread across her face, and her eyes were worn. But now she was cheery.
He stared at her. He remembered prayers to Mary.
"Quite a shocker," the woman started to ramble. He blindly took in an IV dripping something into her arm, and a bottle of pills on her bedside table, spilled open, cap on the floor. Her white, wispy hair was plastered with sweat against her own soaked pillow. A cast was on her arm, and her leg elevated. "I'm just glad I was here before the party got in. All these poor young fellows burned at the cursed nightclub. But God does say evil resides in those clubs."
He remembered a man named Allen and a woman named Marie.
"Well, son, what's your name? You look a bit rustled." She stuck out her hand, oblivious to the fact that her scrawny, bony hand was more than five feet away from his bed. "My name's Judy. Born and bred in the heart of Texas." She suddenly bellowed laughter. "And you're probably wondering what a good old Texas girl is doing out here in God's forsaken frontier. Ooh, you don't pass one by old Judy. People call me crazy." She leaned forward as if to pass on a secret. He stared blankly. "But I'll tell you I'm just whimsical and know that God is taking his faithful on up to heaven soon.
"I tell you because you look like such a nice young fellow. By the way, fella, what's your name? My name's Judy."
He remembered kids and somebody named Greg, and God's name cried again and again.
"Fella? What's your name?"
"Ranger." He flopped back against the pillow and suddenly brought his hands to his face, shielding his eyes, and curling into a fetal position, his vision blurring together messily. "My name's . . . Ranger."
Judy looked at him. "That's a strange name, fella. Judy ain't great, but Ranger is abnormal." She stared at him through hollow eyes abruptly. "You ain't a work of Satan, are you? God says those who come from he are evil and despicable. You ain't a work of Satan, are you, Mr. Ranger? I'd be the unlucky soul to tell you that you're damned."
He didn't answer through his fingers. His head ached too much, throbbed too dully, the blood in his ears pounded too hard. Judy was crazy as the wicked witch of the East.
"Are ya?" she persisted. "Don't be afraid to tell old Judy, dearie. Confession leads to salvation."
*Chris. My name is Chris!*
He wanted to scream at her, yell at her, blow her crazy ass all the way up to Jupiter and maybe even further. She was a bug, a bug that deserved to be crushed, an icky mess on his shoe, an "oh, shit, I got crap on my shoe" expression. She deserved it because his headache was coming back, and she was crazy as hell.
"Confession is the way to salvation, young man. Confess now, sir. You'll be happy."
Goddamn harpy, took to many pills, and got high on morphine. Goddamn fanatic, thought God was in the messages, didn't see the forest, saw trees, and DAMN THOSE TREES!
"Young man! Listen to me!"
Judy, go to hell, you goddamn CRAZY ASS FOOL FULL OF SHIT!
He suddenly screamed.
Judy went silent and gaped at him as he screamed, thrashing on the bed. She suddenly started to yell. "HELP! HE'S GOING CRAZY! HELP!"
Suddenly orderlies were attacking him, driving him to the bed, piling up against him, easing him to calm down. He kept screaming and past their driven white uniforms and his screams, he saw something.
He saw a woman, staring at him, her ashen face fallen in sadness, her black hair drooping around her face.
He saw blue and black and filtering darkness.
On the distant horizon, he thought he heard music.