Right, writing in here for the second time, maybe this'll actually be something that I keep up. Granted, I've nothing better to do and it has been a week or so, but hey, what are you gonna do? If you're wondering why I've been addressing you directly, well, I kind of have this fantasy where I imagine that certain things I write on paper'll be dug up out of some old fort or buried ruin by historians or something; makes me want to address you, my potential future audience. Course, it's nice to feel like I'm talkin' to someone regardless. I think it's a side effect of the public school system (maybe ya'll have one, maybe ya'll don't, but everyone got an education) and how tough for the brighter students it could be. School work all day and homework all night was not an atypical schedule for me; I might have had friends in class with me, but there isn't much talking to be done if you're trying to pass the class. I little more socialization time was always, looking back upon it at least, heartwarming.
I don't have to work as hard here at the castle; hell, I didn't have to stay at all. I could've just gone and become a wandering vagabond, makin' money by selling my body to strangers. Anyway, now that's it's voluntary it has this sort of, well, builds this sort of sentimental value. Maybe it reminds me of the old life more than anything, but it pumps my nostalgia wells dry. Doin' the work so hard also keeps my deep cherishment of socially intimate moments intact, makes an experience like a heart-to-heart under the stars a drug in its own right.
As I said yesterday, any time further I might have spent in wood surrounding the kingdom is lost to me. The next waking moment was spent in a similar blur, unfortunately. I'm pretty sure I realized I was receiving medical treatment, but even if I didn't piece that together I do know I just into a clinic at some point. (I mean, I am writing this whole recollection). Legitimate comprehension undertaken after this honorable mention can be described in the numerical list format; first: no permanent injury. I was certain, and let me be clear in that I mean certain something was going to get cut off, but this kingdom's medical care is, if anything, miraculous.
Ac, hold it focond, sorry. I justng to be dead and goome reads this and that nd of Ooo was a backre I come from. If you want soroof, I got some shut up. If taim complely invalid, alright; this is my journal, not pleasure, Keep in it seems I out of nowhere, it'sably due to that, whether or not. It could also because Iped a few days or something. Oh well, s for you.
Second: brightness. It probably wasn't unbearably bright, to be honest, but I'm not one for dealing with brightness; give me someplace dim and I'll see what you can't, give me someplace bright and my eyes will, eh, they won't be entirely cooperative. Third: white, and that certainly didn't help with the bright, guaranteed. Actually, forget the first number on the list, 'cause bandages were a part of the white, meaning that I technically didn't know if I had permanent injury or not. Maybe all of my skin had died, or they'd stitched someone else's arm onto mine; organs taken from my body, perhaps? I'll be straight with you, though: I turned out fine in the end, but I digress. I sat there for some time, just thinking as much as a hospitalized lump of bandage could, thinking about the light, the white, how it sort of stank, the pain when I tried to bend my elbow; I knew not to open my mouth, for that pain would not only be incredibly profound by comparison but serve as a "and fuck ya too" sort of notice. It was like when you injure yourself without actually feeling it, but you have this itch in the back of your head telling that its there and its best not to touch it or move it or acknowledge it, but sit there till it's been an hour or two instead. I imagine I was awake for an hour or two.
The curtain was ripped open; there was a (white) curtain around my bed, you see, and the intruder was quite unwelcome. Unwelcome at first, at least, because meeting new people is uncomfortable and awkward, but I already knew that woman. Knew that I was in good hands soon as I saw her too; intelligent hands, at the very least. I'd have liked to think her benevolent, but at the time her motives did seem quite cloudy and self-serving. Why, there were even some days when I suspected she only cared for the candy people because the served as subordinate labor or acted as some part of a long standing experiment. I think her fair enough now, though; good in heart and well-meaning in motive. Eh, to the similarly intellectual or experienced for sure. I think. Oh, but there I go on tangents again. Her name was Bubblegum, Princess Bonnibel Bubblegum to be proper about it. I took to calling her Bonni in a few years' time, but I didn't call her anything then, mostly because of my afore mentioned oral affliction. Though, maybe I just felt like being disrespectful.
I even tried to keep my focus towards my (white) sheets as to avoid any potential social obligations. I'm sure they wouldn't have expected me to talk, considering my condition, but I found the precaution necessary regardless. I don't remember what Bonni and… ? What Bonni and the nurse were talking about - didn't care – but it was probably some medical concerns regarding my having been so exposed to the elements. A few minutes in their conversation stopped suddenly, they'd been silenced by a realization. Maybe an assassin. Or maybe they'd just left and I hadn't heard. I definitely hadn't seen the curtain close though. I craned my head up towards where I'd figured the rail for the curtain hooks would be, had to be real careful what with the bandages and pain and all. Strangest thing: I instead found myself looking Bonni straight in the eyes. It was quite a shocking startle, but at the same time I was confined in a silent still, the same still they were in. I looked her right in the face, noting the truly sugary pink hue of her flesh and hair, the unmistakably effeminate contours of her face, but most noteworthy were her eyes; her eyes weren't sunken in by any meaning of the word, but in them I saw the deep understanding and wisdom of age mingled with the astonishing knowledge of a convicted scholar, such a quality as to procure the illusion of being sunken. It contrasted so obviously with her youth, something I had long assumed an accomplishment of her vast knowledge, that I abandoned any prior opinions of her and in their vacancy came respect.
I suspect she knew I saw it; she gave me this warm, broad, sucralose smile. Not that the smile was fake, but that she didn't seem to genuinely smile often. It made me think of a watermelon slice on a fine summer afternoon. It would've been nice to tell them I was hungry before they closed the curtains on me.