“Wake up,” said Greg.
He pulled the surgical mask away from his mouth and tucked it under his chin. “Wake up Martin.”
But Martin was somewhere else; Martin was still there, several hours prior, lying strewn and broken by the post box on the corner where the cul-de-sac met the main road. He’d been posting a letter, a change of address notification for the bank, and had lingered by the post box for a brief moment fretting about the legibility of the handwritten address and the angle of the stamp. It was then that the car had hit, skidding onto the curb and sweeping him into the unforgiving cast iron solidity of the metal post box. He could feel the numbing chill of the rain-soaked asphalt against his cheek, the taste the blood in his mouth. From his view in the gutter the post box towered over him, the cylindrical mass expanding upwards and outwards, its mouth widening into a swirling, leering black chaos of infinite oblivion. The weathered red paint shifted form, boiled, bubbled, and seeped off the metal, flowing towards Martin and pooling around his head like a swarming hoard of ravenous ants, engulfing it, devouring it—
“Martin!” Greg snapped.
A new consciousness twisted into place.
“I got run over,” he croaked.
“That’s right, you got run over, and now you’re here, with me— ”
“I was posting a letter to the bank.”
“But now you’re here, in the hospital with your old mate—”
“My debit card…the expiry date.”
“Can you just open your damn eyes and look at me?” spat Greg.
Martin opened his eyes. Then shut them again.
“Do you recognize me Martin?”
“The light’s all prickly,” said Martin. “And my hip hurts, and my shoulder.”
“Well then take your time and open them slowly,” said Greg, with labored patience.
So Martin opened them slowly. A hundred shades of white swam and danced into focus, finally settling into the unmistakable dour sterility of a National Health Service hospital ward, partitioned off by a drawn plastic curtain. In the foreground a man in a surgical gown stood in expectant triumph, hands on hips, wide of stance; waiting for something: recognition or applause.
“Ironic isn’t it Martin, that of all the surgeons in the land it should be me in charge of saving your life?”
Martin heard the words, could see a version of a face he thought he might recall, and yet the two wouldn’t reconcile themselves in his mind to form any sort of meaning. He grimaced at Greg, half in pain and half in confusion, who frowned back, and then rolled his eyes.
Greg pursed his lips and shook his head. “It’s Greg. Gregory Fisher. You bullied me without mercy for four years and you don’t even have the courtesy to remember my fucking face?”
“Um…Okay,” said Martin, wincing. The tiny fires that had ignited across his body a moment before were flaring up and gaining stature, fogging his already addled mind.
“‘Okay?’” snapped Greg, taking a step forward. “‘Okay’? Is that all you’ve got? I’m not asking to borrow a ballpoint pen, I’m telling you what’s happening here.”
“I’m in a fair bit of pain to be honest. Also I don’t know what—” The fires raged through his nervous system. “Can I have some morphine or something? I’ve had a nasty accident. I got run over—”
“I know you got run over. I just bloody well fixed you, didn’t I!” Greg checked his rising voice and cocked his ear, listening for any movement beyond the curtain that encircled Martin’s bed. “You should have seen your hip,” he hissed, advancing further towards the prostrate Martin, “shattered like a china fucking teapot; a hundred pieces, barely anything left, four broken ribs, a punctured lung, fractured femur. They called me in especially, the only surgeon north of Peterborough that could piece back together the leaking bag of guts they scraped off the pavement.”
“Thanks,” managed Martin, “but I’d really like—”
“Mumbling something about ants, the paramedics said; paint or some shit.”
Greg stared at Martin for a moment as one might a rotten lump of corned beef, then sighed, put his hands behind his back, and idly observed the banks of monitors that surrounded the bed.
“Wake up,” said Greg.
He pulled the surgical mask away from his mouth and tucked it under his chin. “Wake up Martin.”
But Martin was somewhere else; Martin was still there, several hours prior, lying strewn and broken by the post box on the corner where the cul-de-sac met the main road. He’d been posting a letter, a change of address notification for the bank, and had lingered by the post box for a brief moment fretting about the legibility of the handwritten address and the angle of the stamp. It was then that the car had hit, skidding onto the curb and sweeping him into the unforgiving cast iron solidity of the metal post box. He could feel the numbing chill of the rain-soaked asphalt against his cheek, the taste the blood in his mouth. From his view in the gutter the post box towered over him, the cylindrical mass expanding upwards and outwards, its mouth widening into a swirling, leering black chaos of infinite oblivion. The weathered red paint shifted form, boiled, bubbled, and seeped off the metal, flowing towards Martin and pooling around his head like a swarming hoard of ravenous ants, engulfing it, devouring it—
“Martin!” Greg snapped.
A new consciousness twisted into place.
“I got run over,” he croaked.
“That’s right, you got run over, and now you’re here, with me— ”
“I was posting a letter to the bank.”
“But now you’re here, in the hospital with your old mate—”
“My debit card…the expiry date.”
“Can you just open your damn eyes and look at me?” spat Greg.
Martin opened his eyes. Then shut them again.
“Do you recognize me Martin?”
“The light’s all prickly,” said Martin. “And my hip hurts, and my shoulder.”
“Well then take your time and open them slowly,” said Greg, with labored patience.
So Martin opened them slowly. A hundred shades of white swam and danced into focus, finally settling into the unmistakable dour sterility of a National Health Service hospital ward, partitioned off by a drawn plastic curtain. In the foreground a man in a surgical gown stood in expectant triumph, hands on hips, wide of stance; waiting for something: recognition or applause.
“Ironic isn’t it Martin, that of all the surgeons in the land it should be me in charge of saving your life?”
Martin heard the words, could see a version of a face he thought he might recall, and yet the two wouldn’t reconcile themselves in his mind to form any sort of meaning. He grimaced at Greg, half in pain and half in confusion, who frowned back, and then rolled his eyes.
Greg pursed his lips and shook his head. “It’s Greg. Gregory Fisher. You bullied me without mercy for four years and you don’t even have the courtesy to remember my fucking face?”
“Um…Okay,” said Martin, wincing. The tiny fires that had ignited across his body a moment before were flaring up and gaining stature, fogging his already addled mind.
“‘Okay?’” snapped Greg, taking a step forward. “‘Okay’? Is that all you’ve got? I’m not asking to borrow a ballpoint pen, I’m telling you what’s happening here.”
“I’m in a fair bit of pain to be honest. Also I don’t know what—” The fires raged through his nervous system. “Can I have some morphine or something? I’ve had a nasty accident. I got run over—”
“I know you got run over. I just bloody well fixed you, didn’t I!” Greg checked his rising voice and cocked his ear, listening for any movement beyond the curtain that encircled Martin’s bed. “You should have seen your hip,” he hissed, advancing further towards the prostrate Martin, “shattered like a china fucking teapot; a hundred pieces, barely anything left, four broken ribs, a punctured lung, fractured femur. They called me in especially, the only surgeon north of Peterborough that could piece back together the leaking bag of guts they scraped off the pavement.”
“Thanks,” managed Martin, “but I’d really like—”
“Mumbling something about ants, the paramedics said; paint or some shit.”
Greg stared at Martin for a moment as one might a rotten lump of corned beef, then sighed, put his hands behind his back, and idly observed the banks of monitors that surrounded the bed.
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