Post by Tom on Feb 3, 2009 16:27:28 GMT -5
Here's a little something that I wrote a night back and thought I would share with you guys. Hope you enjoy the read.
WARNING: EXPLICIT language.
Can you hear me Mr. Leonard?
‘Your name Sir, what is your name?’
Bernard. No, Colin. Nathan? I try to shake my head but a sharp shooting pain makes camp in the back of my neck, and I simply groan, hoping it’s enough for this broken record to leave me in peace. Damn hospitals and there damn doctors, I despise them. I’ve been to the hospital three times in my life. The first when I had tonsillitis or some other mouth related illness, the second when my mother was recovering from what I vaguely remember as a stroke of some sort and the third…a baby? All I can remember is a screaming baby and a tight grip on my left hand. I shudder. It must have left me some what scarred for now I feel terribly uncomfortable.
‘Sir, can you hear me? Mr. Leonard?’
Leonard. I can thank my father for a first name as a last. He always did get things the wrong way round. I specifically remember when I was four years of age, he was building me a tricycle and some how managed to put the two wheels at the front and the single on the back. Luckily for him, I was four and couldn’t care less. It was when we got older that it used to pain me, as I watched him try to light a cigarette from the wrong end. The dozy bastard passed away before Charlotte was born, God rest his useless soul. Wait. Charlotte, a little blonde haired beauty, born on Christmas day, 1990 in this very hospital. I remember it so well because if it wasn’t for her huge sapphire eyes I might have ran out of that delivery room and puked all over the front entrance.
‘I don’t think he can hear me. Nurse! Mr. Leonard, I need to know, can you hear me?’
I groaned for a second time just to keep the impatient git alive, he sounded like a choked horse, a tuneless whale or even a broken robin. That’s an expression June used to use before I told her to shut her trap and make some sense. June’s a lovely lady, long thick blonde hair and emerald eyes with a body that had me speechless the first time we met. That’s a memory I guess I’ll never forget seeing as it was also a day in which I should have spent in hospital, after being stabbed in the right arm by a gang of youths. June had been working as a chef in one of the local restaurants and was taking out the scraps when she found me lying in my own blood against the wall. She didn’t scream or phone for an ambulance, she just sat down beside me, asked if I were okay and if I needed any help. I quickly convinced her I didn’t and we sat there and talked until the next morning whilst she cleaned and bandaged my arm. Exactly eighteen months to the date we were married, it was one of the happiest days of my life. I mean a free bar, an excited wife and a load of useless presents I would be able to use for Christmas’s to come.
‘I need you to speak Mr. Leonard. It doesn’t matter what you say, I just need to know that you can.’
I chuckled for a second before being forced to stop by the excruciated pain condensing from my stomach. All the things that I could say just to piss this guy off were clawing at my brain, and picking at the little insults as carefully as I could, I turned my head, forced my eyes open and parted my dry mouth.
‘I feel just as your wife must when she’s in bed with you. Fucking terrible.’
Surprisingly enough, the bleedin’ git laughed his ass off for a good minute or so whilst I watched in disgust. His feeble snigger reminded me of my poor old mother. If there’s any one I respect more than my wife, it is her. When describing her I usually compare her with a book. But not just any book, she’s the kind that you re-read over and over again because she’s simply a classic. If it were possible I’d have ‘Puffin’ copyright her and sell her in all the local Waterstones, so everyone could experience the stories she used to tell so well. It started from a young age when she sat at the end of my bed and re-told the great adventures of a boy called Pip and his magic key. I have her to thank for my imagination, and I reckon my career. If it weren’t for her incredible insight and wonderful story-telling I don’t think my poetry would amount for anything She still tells me stories to this day, but it usually takes her longer and occasionally she’ll forget the ending, but I never care. The beginning is always the better part.
‘Right, Mr. Leonard, seeing as you have your sense of humour back, maybe you can tell me you full name?’
Sarcastic twat. Reminds me of my little brother, Derek. Unfortunately, there’s not much to tell. It’s a sort of tragic story. Whilst I became addicted to my imagination, the unlucky sod became addicted to the drink and the drug, at the same time. He’s been in the hospital a load more times than me, but still hasn’t come out in a body bag. My mother doesn’t choose to speak with him and my father never did. He was misunderstood, even to me. Over the years we’ve just lost touch. Last I heard he was playing it big in the capital, not only using but dealing. Some night’s I lie awake wondering whether I should go down and help him, but that little voice in the back of my head re-tells the events that happened last time I tried to. It was when I discovered he was not only physically ill, but also mentally ill. And I’m not talking about a mild dose of identity crisis, I’m talking full on schizophrenia. He’s never the same person, he always somebody different. Sometimes he’s me, sometimes he’s Dad, sometimes he’s even Mum. I simply choose to keep any thoughts locked up in the back of my mind and hope for the best.
‘Mr. Leonard?’
I’m still staring at the Doctor. His hair is short and his face is tense, the coat he is wearing is far too big for him and he looks tired. I feel a little sympathy for him but then remember the situation I am currently in.
‘I want to see my wife.’
The Doctor looks at me oddly before turning to the nurse beside him, muttering something in her ear which causes her to quickly scatter off before returning in seconds with a file in her hand. He reads through the first couple pages before his face saddens.
‘Mr. Leonard, I still need to know your name.’
Jesus Christ. I clear my throat with a cough that pretty much burns my intestine and look the Doctor in the eyes again.
‘Nathan James Leonard, born 1968.’
The Doctor nods slowly and then takes another look in the folder he holds in his hands. He does his best to smile and thanks me for my co-operation. I swear under my breath and turn over so I’m facing away from him. I hear his footsteps as he walks away and I close my eyes. Whilst I’m waiting, may as well get some sleep.
~*~
Doctor Jeremy Hopscotch waited until he was out of sight before re-opening the file in his hands. He quickly skimmed the first few lines, name, date of birth and any medical conditions. It was typical, he even smiled at how ironic it was.
‘Doctor?’
Jeremy turned to face the nurse who had been in the room with him. She looked concerned, which amused him for a moment.
‘What’s the problem Katie?’
‘The way you left…is his wife dead?’
Jeremy couldn’t help but burst out laughing. He quickly contained himself however, when he noticed the anger on Katie’s face. He decided to explain himself.
‘He hasn’t got a wife, nor is his name Nathan Leonard.’
Katie’s eyes widened and she remained silent for a few seconds.
‘But…but then why did you call him Mr. Leonard?’
Jeremy smiles before handing her the open file. She quickly reads through it with a confused glance on her face, before looking up.
‘Derek Leonard?’
WARNING: EXPLICIT language.
Can you hear me Mr. Leonard?
‘Your name Sir, what is your name?’
Bernard. No, Colin. Nathan? I try to shake my head but a sharp shooting pain makes camp in the back of my neck, and I simply groan, hoping it’s enough for this broken record to leave me in peace. Damn hospitals and there damn doctors, I despise them. I’ve been to the hospital three times in my life. The first when I had tonsillitis or some other mouth related illness, the second when my mother was recovering from what I vaguely remember as a stroke of some sort and the third…a baby? All I can remember is a screaming baby and a tight grip on my left hand. I shudder. It must have left me some what scarred for now I feel terribly uncomfortable.
‘Sir, can you hear me? Mr. Leonard?’
Leonard. I can thank my father for a first name as a last. He always did get things the wrong way round. I specifically remember when I was four years of age, he was building me a tricycle and some how managed to put the two wheels at the front and the single on the back. Luckily for him, I was four and couldn’t care less. It was when we got older that it used to pain me, as I watched him try to light a cigarette from the wrong end. The dozy bastard passed away before Charlotte was born, God rest his useless soul. Wait. Charlotte, a little blonde haired beauty, born on Christmas day, 1990 in this very hospital. I remember it so well because if it wasn’t for her huge sapphire eyes I might have ran out of that delivery room and puked all over the front entrance.
‘I don’t think he can hear me. Nurse! Mr. Leonard, I need to know, can you hear me?’
I groaned for a second time just to keep the impatient git alive, he sounded like a choked horse, a tuneless whale or even a broken robin. That’s an expression June used to use before I told her to shut her trap and make some sense. June’s a lovely lady, long thick blonde hair and emerald eyes with a body that had me speechless the first time we met. That’s a memory I guess I’ll never forget seeing as it was also a day in which I should have spent in hospital, after being stabbed in the right arm by a gang of youths. June had been working as a chef in one of the local restaurants and was taking out the scraps when she found me lying in my own blood against the wall. She didn’t scream or phone for an ambulance, she just sat down beside me, asked if I were okay and if I needed any help. I quickly convinced her I didn’t and we sat there and talked until the next morning whilst she cleaned and bandaged my arm. Exactly eighteen months to the date we were married, it was one of the happiest days of my life. I mean a free bar, an excited wife and a load of useless presents I would be able to use for Christmas’s to come.
‘I need you to speak Mr. Leonard. It doesn’t matter what you say, I just need to know that you can.’
I chuckled for a second before being forced to stop by the excruciated pain condensing from my stomach. All the things that I could say just to piss this guy off were clawing at my brain, and picking at the little insults as carefully as I could, I turned my head, forced my eyes open and parted my dry mouth.
‘I feel just as your wife must when she’s in bed with you. Fucking terrible.’
Surprisingly enough, the bleedin’ git laughed his ass off for a good minute or so whilst I watched in disgust. His feeble snigger reminded me of my poor old mother. If there’s any one I respect more than my wife, it is her. When describing her I usually compare her with a book. But not just any book, she’s the kind that you re-read over and over again because she’s simply a classic. If it were possible I’d have ‘Puffin’ copyright her and sell her in all the local Waterstones, so everyone could experience the stories she used to tell so well. It started from a young age when she sat at the end of my bed and re-told the great adventures of a boy called Pip and his magic key. I have her to thank for my imagination, and I reckon my career. If it weren’t for her incredible insight and wonderful story-telling I don’t think my poetry would amount for anything She still tells me stories to this day, but it usually takes her longer and occasionally she’ll forget the ending, but I never care. The beginning is always the better part.
‘Right, Mr. Leonard, seeing as you have your sense of humour back, maybe you can tell me you full name?’
Sarcastic twat. Reminds me of my little brother, Derek. Unfortunately, there’s not much to tell. It’s a sort of tragic story. Whilst I became addicted to my imagination, the unlucky sod became addicted to the drink and the drug, at the same time. He’s been in the hospital a load more times than me, but still hasn’t come out in a body bag. My mother doesn’t choose to speak with him and my father never did. He was misunderstood, even to me. Over the years we’ve just lost touch. Last I heard he was playing it big in the capital, not only using but dealing. Some night’s I lie awake wondering whether I should go down and help him, but that little voice in the back of my head re-tells the events that happened last time I tried to. It was when I discovered he was not only physically ill, but also mentally ill. And I’m not talking about a mild dose of identity crisis, I’m talking full on schizophrenia. He’s never the same person, he always somebody different. Sometimes he’s me, sometimes he’s Dad, sometimes he’s even Mum. I simply choose to keep any thoughts locked up in the back of my mind and hope for the best.
‘Mr. Leonard?’
I’m still staring at the Doctor. His hair is short and his face is tense, the coat he is wearing is far too big for him and he looks tired. I feel a little sympathy for him but then remember the situation I am currently in.
‘I want to see my wife.’
The Doctor looks at me oddly before turning to the nurse beside him, muttering something in her ear which causes her to quickly scatter off before returning in seconds with a file in her hand. He reads through the first couple pages before his face saddens.
‘Mr. Leonard, I still need to know your name.’
Jesus Christ. I clear my throat with a cough that pretty much burns my intestine and look the Doctor in the eyes again.
‘Nathan James Leonard, born 1968.’
The Doctor nods slowly and then takes another look in the folder he holds in his hands. He does his best to smile and thanks me for my co-operation. I swear under my breath and turn over so I’m facing away from him. I hear his footsteps as he walks away and I close my eyes. Whilst I’m waiting, may as well get some sleep.
~*~
Doctor Jeremy Hopscotch waited until he was out of sight before re-opening the file in his hands. He quickly skimmed the first few lines, name, date of birth and any medical conditions. It was typical, he even smiled at how ironic it was.
‘Doctor?’
Jeremy turned to face the nurse who had been in the room with him. She looked concerned, which amused him for a moment.
‘What’s the problem Katie?’
‘The way you left…is his wife dead?’
Jeremy couldn’t help but burst out laughing. He quickly contained himself however, when he noticed the anger on Katie’s face. He decided to explain himself.
‘He hasn’t got a wife, nor is his name Nathan Leonard.’
Katie’s eyes widened and she remained silent for a few seconds.
‘But…but then why did you call him Mr. Leonard?’
Jeremy smiles before handing her the open file. She quickly reads through it with a confused glance on her face, before looking up.
‘Derek Leonard?’
