Dorsum Oppel
June 8th, 2010, 01:00 PM
I was a healer. At least, that's what I had thought when I learned how to heal. Over the years, healing has turned into pressing buttons, and sliding needles into arms. Sometimes telling a person that they will die. We aren't healers, really. Just doctors.
I was a not-healer at Kettering medical. It was faith based, but I had stopped believing in god years ago. Kettering is an odd word. It sounds like something used to describe a trickle, or maybe a stumble. Stumbling iron trinkets. I had been a poet years ago, but I had been a maybe-healer as well. If I wasn't a healer, then I probably wasn't a poet either.
So there I was, my not-healing maybe-poet self checking vitals. Glancing over the grey plastic clip board at a woman who appears equally as grey and plastic. She drew in that miserable trembling half breath, half gasp that you get after you're crying. In a place like this, you're not allowed to feel bad for the patients. It offs your game.
"My name is mary."
She spoke. Most of the patients don't talk. Only thing like 'I need some more water' or 'Can I have more blankets?' and even when they do speak, it's more of a groan or whisper. I glanced up again, and quickly shot my eyes back down. Hers were blood shot. I looked down at my clipboard.
Mary santa rosa, 23.
Terminal.
It seemed like everyone was terminal these days. I Marked down my report, and left. Rather than waked, I kettered. I don't do walking anymore. I do kettering.
I was a not-healer at Kettering medical. It was faith based, but I had stopped believing in god years ago. Kettering is an odd word. It sounds like something used to describe a trickle, or maybe a stumble. Stumbling iron trinkets. I had been a poet years ago, but I had been a maybe-healer as well. If I wasn't a healer, then I probably wasn't a poet either.
So there I was, my not-healing maybe-poet self checking vitals. Glancing over the grey plastic clip board at a woman who appears equally as grey and plastic. She drew in that miserable trembling half breath, half gasp that you get after you're crying. In a place like this, you're not allowed to feel bad for the patients. It offs your game.
"My name is mary."
She spoke. Most of the patients don't talk. Only thing like 'I need some more water' or 'Can I have more blankets?' and even when they do speak, it's more of a groan or whisper. I glanced up again, and quickly shot my eyes back down. Hers were blood shot. I looked down at my clipboard.
Mary santa rosa, 23.
Terminal.
It seemed like everyone was terminal these days. I Marked down my report, and left. Rather than waked, I kettered. I don't do walking anymore. I do kettering.