ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Uncertainty
| Vignette - Uncertainty | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2014-02-18 (Set the evening following biopsying.) |
| Location
<NYC> The Mendel Clinic - Lower East Side | |
With its sharp crystalline edges and sleek lines knifing up into the sky, this building is one of the most /distinctive/ new additions to the neighborhood. An angular structure in glass and steel, the tall tower has a deceptively slender look to it that is belied by the heavy security as soon as you enter the doors. The front doors are frosted with the Clinic's logo -- a rising sun over a rod of Asclepius -- a motif echoed in many places throughout the building. Visitors to the clinic must first pass through a small mantrap, guarded by some of the Clinic's security guards; once they make it through the metal detector and airlock's double doors they emerge into the much more hospitable lobby. With dark wood floors underneath and comfortable black and red couches at its edges, the high windows give the room an airy feel. A bank of elevators to one side carry visitors to the many destination floors, while the wide welcome desk at the other side is manned by a security guard ready to help point visitors in the right direction. Today he brought a book. The Left Hand of Darkness like some kind of distraction, like maybe he could prepare for the waiting rooms and exam rooms and all of it pressing in against his (cold) (shaved) skull, boring in like a million more drills, like a million more needles. He could still feel yesterday's hole there. Bored through his skull, letting a million people's thoughts pour in loud and grating to rake harsh and painful over his mind. Letting his thoughts slip back out no matter how hard he tried to hold onto them, words escaping him, memories falling just out of reach, even the book right in front of him just this much out of his concentration. Flicker curls a hand around his head, palm resting against the bandage beneath his cap. It should hurt, probably, but instead it just feels like stemming a leak. Like grounding. Like blocking out the noise so he can finally -- The words on the page snap finally from blur into definition, as Flicker's hand presses into warm comforting steadiness against the ache in his head. The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty: not knowing what comes next. From across the room a nurse is calling his name. He feels it before he hears it, it registers in his mind before it registers in his ears, and his legs are propelling him upward almost without him consciously understanding why. Flicker's hand curls against his elbow. He's forgotten his book on the waiting room chair. The examination room brings a familiar rush of panic. Pacing. Claws curling against Flicker's mind, over and over; over and over he's not so much pushed back as shaken off; a blip-phase out of existence, no-mind where a second before there was one, and his claws have nothing to sink into for just that split-second long enough to dislodge them. Today he's not waiting all that long. Doesn't have all that long to panic, doesn't have all that long to pace. The problem, he's always tried to explain, with relationships -- lovers, doctors, therapists, is it's hard to maintain them, hard to keep them going when you can hear everything they're thinking. Hard to keep the right mood, whether that's professional or intimate, whether that's distance or closeness. Whether that's waiting -- whether that's finding the right way to tell -- He hears Rasheed coming from shortly down the hall; Flicker can tell this when his pacing stops, when his fingers clench up into fists and his teeth grit hard. There's a hand at his elbow in an instant, steady-supportive and this time he needs it, leaning half against Flicker as his fist thunks down hard against the thin crinkly paper covering the patient examination table. His other hand lifts, slips beneath the soft cap on his head to run fingers against the knotted old scars lacing the side of his skull. By the time the doctor actually arrives in the room, he gives the folders in Rasheed's grasp only the most cursory of looks. "Yeah," is all he says, curt and heavy, with an unfolding flick of fingers towards the older man's temples. "Already know." And then, sinking back, against the table, against Flicker, his teeth grind slowly again. "So." His fingers brush slow against the side of his head. "-- What comes next." | |
