It was never
simple to wait,
to sit quiet.

Was there still
another way round,
a distance to go –

as if an echo
hung in
the air before

one was heard,
before a word
had been said.

-Robert Creeley

-----------------------------------

Pacing: An automatic response to a simple stimulus, which does not require mental processing. One of the various ways the human body deals with its affliction of mental anguish or distress. Categorized with other reflexive responses- nail biting, uncontrolled sweating, nervous twitches, extraction from speech or conscious thought, dilation of the pupils, wringing of the hands…et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Thus far, my body has chosen two very stupid ways of dealing with situations of painful suspense; pacing being one of them.

To clarify, pacing is tiresome, especially for someone who is both physically and mentally exhausted. There are so many more effective ways of getting exercise. Whatever ethereal force was controlling my legs obviously was blind to the fact that I was tired, and that walking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth in this stupid hallway was not providing an ounce of rest. And pacing was pointless. It did not contribute to helping the suspenseful situation in any way shape or form. Pacing requires almost rhythmic, evenly-spaced steps. If I wanted to take rhythmic, easily-spaced steps, I would've enrolled myself in tap lessons. In fact, I'd rather be dancing than pacing. And pacing worked no wonders in terms of the condition of one's shoes. Again, endless cycles of back and forth wasn't exactly adding rubber to my soles. I couldn't afford to walk much more than I already did. I didn't own a car. The nearest subway entrance was five blocks from my apartment, and I hadn't the money for a new pair of shoes for over a year now. I didn't desire to wear them down any further. And at the very most, pacing makes one even more agitated than the initial anxiety that induced the pacing! I swear, if I pass that same picture of a little girl picking flowers ONE MORE TIME I am going to straight up hack off my legs. But then, since it is my body's natural selection to constantly move about in times of distress, I'd probably strain my arms and slide myself to and fro in my own trail of blood, using my severed legs as ski poles. For heaven's sake Mark, sit down.

The bottom of my left shoe has torn halfway off and is flapping fixatedly with every footfall. It ticks on the rubbery floor of the hospital, keeping a steady rhythm to accompany the abject, soprano 'squeak', 'squeak', 'squeak' the bases of my shoes are emitting. It makes for one damned annoying song.

'Flapflap' 'SQUEAK' 'Flapflap' 'SQUEAK' 'Flapflap' 'SQUEAK'!

Dear Lord, and I need a change of scenery.

Vinyl chairs, fern in pot, girl picking flowers. Vinyl chairs, fern in pot, girl picking flowers. Vinyl chair, fern in pot, girl picking flowers…

It's times like these I really want to hurl myself from the open window of a thirty-story building. Fortunately (unfortunately?) Roger's room is on the first floor.

This was not the first time I'd embedded my footprints into the hallway of this A.I.D.S. ward. I'd much prefer that this was the time two months ago. At least then I had the lobby off to my right. At least the scenery changed every few minutes when new patients were admitted and assigned rooms, or when lovers or friends or nurses came to drop by for a visit. And once and a while a person was wheeled through on a stretcher, temporarily causing me to stop my pacing and stand immobile, to the side, to let the doctors pass. It was a nice little break.

But now, there was only the glowing floor below me, the fluorescent lights above me- blaring a constant, migraine-inducing white, the chairs and plant to my right, picture and blank wall to my left, and, when I completed the ellipse, vice versa.

Fuck, this was boring... And irritating. And if I had a seat I'd be on the edge of it. Too bad the floor didn't have an edge. Fuck the thirty-story window. I'd dive right over into the chasm and fall and fall and fall until I was absorbed by the darkness.

The darkness.

Hmm...

Oh, fuck that too! I've had enough of this 'falling into darkness.' When and if I'm finally able to stop this pacing, the darkness will begin to creep up from beneath me and eventually obstruct my vision so I stumble and fall and be engulfed, and the only light in that damned vertical, tentative tunnel that forms is the strangely luminous prism of that orange plastic pill bottle.

'Go toward the light.' How fucking overrated.

I mean, Angel told Mimi to turn away from it! And that saved her for like, two seconds. Ha. I don't hear Angel telling me shit. So I'll go toward whatever the fuck I want. That weak little orange glow is a hell of a lot more comforting then that black abyss.

...I'm fucking scared...

And annoyed. STOP PACING MARK!

I place my hand on the wall and hold myself still. I get dizzy. So I pace.

'Flapflap' 'SQUEAK' 'Flapflap' 'SQUEAK'…

I hear someone coming. Ooh, company!

A stretcher, occupied by a writhing, moaning, plague-infested shell of a man races past, his nurses barking at one another to stabilize this breathing, review his medication chart…

I stare at his blackened, hollowed cheeks as he wheels past, stare at his bleeding tongue that he has bitten, accidentally, in the process of fighting for his life. He holds up his skeletal hand, reaching, grabbing, failing…

I stop pacing. I stop and stare and watch him disappear behind the doors of the patient elevator.

I grab the wall again.

Steady Mark, steady.

My stomach drops.

My hope drops.

My hand drops.

The floor rushes up towards my face, its reflective, scuffed panels careening at grueling speeds.

Well, isn't this just fine and dandy? I'm falling into darkness anyway.