Sunday, February 19, 2006
He stared and stared…he stared so much that he forgot his eyelashes…what’s happening? He couldn’t feel anything but his eyes.
“Oh no, what’s with the anesthetic?”, she motioned at the nurse.
“It’s alright ma’am”.
“What alright? Can’t you see he’s staring???”
“But you asked for a local…”
“Well, then I asked for the wrong thing! I can’t operate like this”, she said.
The nurse went to look outside, puzzled and feeling generally queer.
He felt a rush of compulsion to close his eyes as he saw the doctor-like being injecting some potion in…oh no, what the hell, in his butt! He let out a last, frantic plea just before drowning down into a pool of unconsciousness: “Where am I?”
“Poor thing…”, sighed the doctor.
Tradam is sick of the white room…everything is white in there. The bed-sheets, the curtains, the door and even the wrought iron is painted white…He was half expecting that an albino doctor would arrive with an equally albino syringe with needles painted in white, when the nurse entered with a transparent syringe with a silver needle, her hair calling jet black even if it was dyed heavily…what a white room!
“What’s your name ma’am?”, he asked. He hasn’t talked to any person, let alone a woman for ages since he last fell off the cliff.
She went about her usual business injecting some transparent liquid, this time not in his butt but in the saline bag.
“Wait, let me guess, does your name have the word Nightingale anywhere?”, he asked again. She gave him a forlorn, zombie look, trying to fix the flow of saline in his blood.
“Perhaps I am mistaken…It’s Teresa, isn’t it?”
She knew about a knowing smile, which she smiled generously and left the damned, white room.
A moment or two went by with the usual whiteness. Even the thoughts must be reflecting and not only light, in such unheard of whiteness…
(……………………….to be continued)