When I think back to those days, I remember them so fondly,
The times that I've spent with you.
And yet, when I reminisce, there is a lurch in my chest.
I feel pain.
You who are never to leave me, always at my side
My strength, my duress, the one who begets the turbulence in my heart,
I can't help but resent you, and the confliction that you have stirred.
These feelings, they are contradictory, but so are you and I.
Everchanging, lasting but only a moment each time, time and time again.
I am reminded of sprigs of violet, blooming concurrently in the sporadic spring, if just for a bit.
Yes, Syringa Vulgaris, that of which you loved so.
-
The fluorescent lights overhead were very dim, faintly flashing at uneven intervals throughout the hour. It wasn't much of a problem, since it was early in the day, but she couldn't help but notice it, being that the lights were the only 'animate' thing in the hallway— other than her self of course.
She continued to walk, scanning each and every label on top of the doorways so that she wouldn't miss her target. It wasn't until she reached around the middle of the corridor that she spotted a familiar signage on one of the doors to the right. There it was, she had reached her destination.
She made a reach for the handle instinctively before quickly stopping. She had been doing this for quite some time already, (not very long however) but it would still be rude to not knock before entering. It may have been following routine, but she still had manners.
Three times she knocked, being sure not to be too loud so as not to arouse any alarm from those who inhabited this space. She then called to the other side of the door, notifying them of her arrival. For a small moment she waited for a response. The silence on the other side of the door would be perceived as rather eerie to most. To her, it was commonplace.
Finally, she heard a small grunt from inside the door that would have otherwise been inaudible had she not pressed her ear to its surface. She gave a reply, making it known that she would be entering, and pulled the handle outward.
The room was a pleasant temperature compared to the outside hallway, which was chilly. It smelled just as pleasant too, a faint tinge of a flowery aroma permeated throughout the air. A sweet but mild fragrance.
Yes, the room, congenial in feeling, was nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps that is why the man who sat on the bed across in silence, was such a striking divergence to the ambiance it gave off.
His body was slightly turned toward the window; it was his own way of being dismissive and yet still acknowledging her presence. She didn't take it to be mean-spirited however, as she wasn't exactly there to be the arbiter of all that is good and wonderful.
Instead, she was there to do a job.
She reached inside her bag that she was carrying, and fumbled around, taking out one item at a time and placing it on a nearby table. When she reached for the final item, she closed the bag and promptly dropped it onto the ground.
On the table were her tools— a white clipboard with documents attached to its hinges, a pen, a bottle of water, and a pill bottle.
She grabbed the clipboard and the pen, and pulling a nearby chair over so that she could sit. She began to flip through the documents until she reached a page filled with spaced, horizontal black lines. It was on this page that she was supposed to take her notes.
"Good afternoon," she greeted, "It's good to see you again. It's time for me to administer your medicine, but before I do that, I need to know how you are feeling."
The words poured from her mouth sweetly like honey, but her stomach slightly churned, and her right eye twitched. She couldn't help but be disgusted at herself for being so artificial, so conformable to the rules. Apparently, he must have felt the same way, as he said nothing in return.
"Alright. Here we go," her right hand grasped the pen tightly as she prepared herself to write, "How are you feeling? Any pain or stiffness within the last eight hours?"
No response.
"...Okay, how about your mood? Have you been feeling any sort of anxiety? Sadness? Hopelessness?"
No response.
She didn't wait for his reply to begin jotting down her notes. Initially she had, but after a while she gave up on expecting some sort of answer from the man, and just wrote about how he 'seemed to be improving'. There was no need to probe him further.
It was annoying, yes, but it was routine.
She finished her notes quickly, as always, and placed the pen and clipboard back onto the table. Now it was time for her to give the man his medicine.
She found herself peering at the label. This was the prescription that she had always given him, but she couldn't help herself from reading it. Distractions give the mind a bit of closure, do they not?
Carefully, the printed characters were examined. As with most medicine that she was familiar with, the drug came from some foreign pharmaceutical company overseas, and had an unusual name that would otherwise be indecipherable, had it not been translated into the writing system that she was acquainted with.
Duloxetine— and this time, the dosage had lessened in amount.
She twisted off the cap and dropped the pill onto the palm of her hand. She then grabbed the water bottle and twisted off its cap as well, being careful not to drop the pills she held.
"It appears your dosage has lowered recently," she mused, trying her best to lighten the mood, "You're being weaned off these pills it seems, that means they are readying you to go home eventually."
He stared toward her direction, but still remained quiet. She walked over to him and outreached her hand, gesturing him to take the drug. He slightly relented, but then gently picked the capsules from her palm, plopping them into his mouth. Immediately afterwards she handed him the bottle of water, of which he also grabbed and poured down his throat, as was routine.
This was an everyday thing, a typical sort of interaction between the two. Nothing much transpired other than what was expected of them. She would signal the 'okay' for medical reports on his condition regardless if he gave an answer or not, and in turn he would peacefully oblige to her requests without hesitation. It was a win-win scenario for the both of them. And that was it concerning their relationship. There was no need for more, now was there?
When he was done, she took the bottle away from him and shoved it back into the bag, along with the other items that she had originally pulled out. Now was the time for her to leave.
"I'll be reporting our little checkup today to the head nurses, who will then forward this information to your doctor. Hopefully he will be meeting up with you soon for another appointment," She picked up her bag, and placed it on the now empty table, "Another nurse will be in within a couple of hours to do your vitals. If you need any assistance with anything, do not hesitate to press the buzzer located to the left of your bed."
Again, there was not a word uttered from his lips. But that was the usual, after all.
She grabbed her bag, readying to leave. But before she did, she could not help but glance a final time at the man who sat enigmatically on the bed. Fortuitously, they had caught eyes, but she hastily turned away upon contact, ashamed of her actions.
Those eyes. They imprinted the backings of her conscience in a forbidden, sacrilegious ink that was unable to be washed away. They were not always at the forefront, but they at least made sure to waft around— like a stink that is subtle and which never dissipates.
He was a man of a normal appearance for the most part. She found fault in the way specific matters were handled, but she could never deny that the facility made an effort to make sure that that their patients were well tended to physically. He was at a healthy weight, his skin was bright, and he was well groomed. A younger man, she presumed him to still be somewhere in his 20s. He exhibited a delightfully boyish attractiveness as well, despite his melancholic demeanor.
And yet it was those eyes, those eyes which contained those dark, deeply colored irises that she helplessly found herself mesmerized by...Why were they so unpleasant to look at? Why were they so sad?
These eyes, she assumed, must have once glimmered splendidly. Only in eyes where light once gleamed radiantly could there exist the capacity to display such great sadness. Was it contrition? Disillusionment? Only the deepest afflictions can imbue the eyes with such tumultuous emotions.
They entranced her, shackled her arms, and slashed at her will. What was the cause of this pain? She longed to know more about the mysterious man.
Nothing is more alluring than the unknown.
She was afraid however, unsure of herself. She wasn't supposed to do that. Nevertheless, It is rude to pry, isn't it? Who said that the man would even be willing to share his story?
She sighed softly, pushing open the door bag in hand. Before she exited, she took one more passing glance at the man. Apparently, he had resumed facing toward the window again.
It probably was a habit of his.
"I'll be here again tomorrow," she called out, the last time for the day,
"Goodbye, Matsuno-san."