Monster Hospital
March 7th, 2010 by admin
Monster Hospital
He cannot understand how a place as sterile as a hospital can feel so dirty. The odour of rubbing alcohol permeates the entire building, burning his nostrils as the elevator doors open. He steps onto the fourth floor and immediately hears an anguished cry from a room to his left.
“IT HURTS! OWWWW!! OHGOD!OHGOD!OHGOD!OHGOD! AUGH! MERCY! IT HURTS! PLEASE!”
“Mrs. Murphy, please… just try and lie on your side…”
Pleading with her won’t help you, he thinks. In 12 hours, Mrs. Murphy will be dead. She’ll die in her sleep from an infection and severe pneumonia, both of which she contracted despite an otherwise successful operation to remove a tumor from her right lung. The nurses and doctors have no chance to save her.
Fuck it, the nurses and doctors here are idiots anyway, he thinks to himself. Her immune system couldn’t handle the invasive surgery and was deteriorating at an alarming rate. Mrs. Murphy will die tonight at 1:13AM, while her nurse smokes a joint in a car outside the ER. Her boyfriend will come by to play her his latest mixtape – trying to become a DJ, he goes by the name of Smokestax.
Backing away from Mrs. Murphy’s room – wife of Charles, and mother to Johnny and Sean Murphy – his gaze stops on a small placard with an arrow pointing to the left. The engraving on the copper sign, affixed to a faded and crumbling baby-blue wall, reads ROOMS 401-429. He turns to his left and walks down the hallway.
401… 403… 405, on his right. 402… 404… 406, on his left. He slowly plods toward 423, muttering under his breath as he passes each room: “401… pancreatic cancer; water in the lungs, dead before New Year’s. 403… punctured lung; full recovery. 405… brain embolism; he’ll develop an allergic reaction to his medication and fall into a coma, dead by February…”
He never understood why he was so aware of these intangibles, and frankly he never cared. It was more a burden to him than anything else. The strengths and weaknesses of those around him, their deepest secrets and their darkest thoughts, all their repressed memories and blocked emotions; he knew them all.
“415… heart attack; he’ll have another one before week’s end but live another 23 years. 417… Fractured skull; brain damage, she’s a veggie for life. 419… liver disease; her son donated his liver but died during the operation, she’ll survive, but no one has told her yet.”
He doesn’t care. He never cared. When his own mother died, he didn’t so much as shed a tear. Why care? He never asked to know about everyone’s problems, nor does he want to keep it up, but that’s life. And if that’s life, he may as well not care. It doesn’t seem to make a difference anyway.
Steps away from room 423 now… his heart is not racing, sweat is not dripping from his brow. He is as calm and collected as ever.
He reaches for the doorknob and, upon making contact, shudders violently; ungodly, terrifying, disgusting images enter his mind, swirling about as if being blended into a black ball of pure and repulsive evil. Worse than anything he has ever seen or imagined, this hatred and atrociousness engulfs his brain and spreads its monstrous grip until he blacks out from agony.
He opens his eyes. He doesn’t know where he is… On the floor, he thinks. He scans left and right… People, he thinks. His head pounds. Is that music? Or horrible screaming?
“Where… where am I…?” he mutters groggily. A swift kick to his ribs knocks the wind out of him. Gasping for air and clutching his chest, he hears someone whisper in his ear: “It’s Daniel’s birthday, muhfucka.”
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