White sheets, white walls and annoyingly clean white, starched pillows indicated that Vince Noir had failed in his suicide attempt. And this, if possible, made him feel even more pathetic. There are bruises on his arms that he doesn't remember getting and some kind of tube down his throat that makes swallowing acutely painful. Several needles were stabbed into his arm and the back of his hand.
Beyond the patterned curtain and erratic, fast-paced beep of the heart monitor, the loud hubbub of the hospital clouded his thoughts; or that could just be the painkillers. Or maybe even the after effects of trying to die. Either way, it hurt a great deal, not just physically either…
The clock on the wall read 11:05. Whether it was day or night remained elusive. He could barely keep his eyes open. Pain in his stomach made patches of light bloom behind his eyelids.
He was about to drift off into a restless sleep when the curtain ruffled, followed by the efficient step of a man in an expensive cut suit and white coat. A consultant, or maybe even a doctor. He was followed in be roughly a dozen medical students, all clutching clipboards and looking nervously around them, like a warped scene of Scrubs, minus the humour.
"Doctor Anderson, head consultant here at St Thomas' Hospital." He smiled, in a fake, professional manner, and picked up a clipboard, languidly recording a few new notes from the various monitors, then turning to the students behind him who startled and shuffled back slightly. "Vince Noir, suicide attempt, no history of depression." Dr Anderson drawled, watching everyone scathingly as they scribbled down notes. "Pulse rate remains fast though regular, though patient was in an almost comatose state when admitted at 5am this morning." He turned to Vince. "So, how are you feeling?" The statement ended with another ludicrously false smile. Was he really expecting an answer?
"In pain.." he managed to croak out, before another wave of nausea hit him.
"Yes well, that's to be expected. You should have thought of that before ODing!"
He turned again to his subjects, beckoning them closer with a snooty wave of his arm.
"Now, as you know, the case is often the same with these types. Although not afore mentioned on their medical records, they often suffer some form of mental illness and subsequent-
"I'm not mad." Coughed Vince from between the stiff covers.
He was ignored.
"I'm not mad." He said again, louder. The doctor swivelled on the balls of his feet to face him, anger flashing in his eyes, quickly replaced by a neutral mask.
"Well I don't think you are in a position to judge that Mr…Noir." One of the pupils behind him snorted. "People who attempt suicide, no matter what their verdict are often confused, and quite often messed up people, though I am speaking strictly off the books."
With that, he pushed aside the curtain once more, and left, leaving Vince to wallow in his misery once more…
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