He hated hospitals as a rule. He hated needles, therapy and waiting. All the waiting.
Waiting to die.
Waiting for hope.
Waiting for a medical miracle.
He hated the chemical smell of the lino corridors and the slosh of the mop, and the smell of mince and cabbage that seemed to permeate this floor. And visitors.
When he'd first arrived here, he didn't recall very much. His life reduced to bleeps and the hiss of the ventilator. Then darkness and nothing more for days. When he'd surfaced to the light, he saw nothing and wondered how the world was without him. The tube prevented him from asking. When he began to see, he saw the looks of worry. Restless eyes around him were unsure of where to land and how to find him amongst the wires. As he was reduced to an IV line and wobbly legs there were head tilts of sympathy.
Then he went home to wait some more.
Looks have progressed to double takes these days as he taps the hated stick. Something his father used towards the end. He was appalled that it had come to this. His relationship with this object and the need to be rid of it was the only reason he'd turned up to painful physical work.
He sighed as another visitor went to offer support and glared at her. He'd have to improve his mood today otherwise the threat of psychotherapy would be acted on. He supposed that at least people talked to him despite the stick. When he was bound to the wheelchair, he had become apparently invisible or dead. That was an improvement. Getting to the lift improved his outlook a little more. He'd manage the smoking area one day. Today the canteen he thought. A nice coffee and a currant bun. He gazed at the buttons trying to focus his eyesight and tried not to get frustrated by his slowness.
"Which floor?" A tall brunette followed him in with an air of impatience he rather liked. Then he realised she had good cause for her irritation for he hadn't pressed the panel at all. He leaned forward, resting on the stick which he had tried to hide and hit the ground floor option. She nodded with a little compassion and pressed floor seven. No head tilt thankfully, he noticed.
"My first trip out." He commented for the want of anything else to say as the lift clanked around them.
"I can think of more exciting places than floor one." She quipped.
"There's coffee." He explained.
"Ah, a proper coffee shop, that makes sense." She nodded conspiratorially as the lift pinged at floor seven and the doors slid open. "Good luck."
He nodded and watched her go; his first normal conversion in weeks and then his ears pricked up. He knew that voice.
"Dempsey?"
"Chief?"
