A Dramatization
Mar. 17th, 2002 12:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofallgeeksGroggily, he staggered out of bed, nearly falling into the phone. Blindly, he dialed the number, and waited for an answer.
"Yes, is Karen there? ... OK, thanks. ... Karen? ... Yeah, I'm not comming into work today, I've got a bad fever. ... Yeah, I hope to be in tomarrow. .. OK, I'll see ya."
He hung up the phone and crawled back into bed, mumbling to himself about the $56 dollars he wouldn't be making today. he was alseep before his room-mate got back from the shower.
Aching all over, he woke up some time later. He wasn't sure if it was two or four hours, or even just fifteen minutes. The clock helped him little - he couldn't read it, and even if he could, the math would be a headache.
A headache, like a giant vice, clamping down on his temples. At times it seemed someone were forching a Mac Truck into his forehead, or slowly, steadly squieezing the base of his skull like some ripe fruit. The only other sensation was heat - excruciating heat. He felt like he was in a dutch oven - no, he felt like he WAS an oven. He'd been called warm before, but now he simply radiated. In his half-aware state, he found it odd that his blankets had not caught flame.
His jaw was clamped tight, as though he were a diseased beast. He knew, on a basic, primal level, that if he loosened that clamp, he would cough. And in the same way, he knew he didn't want that. His world, a haze of pain, and heat, and shadow, faded out again.
When next he woke, his chest buned. Not with heat or flames, but with exertion. His coughing fit was uncontrolable. The drugs had worn off, and left him crippled by the need to cough and the pain it brought.
When he was finally able to control himself, he slid out of bed, lowwering himself to the floor. Can't fall down from here. He found the pills; sinus medicine and some 'herb' he was supposed to take. He downed them with all but the last bit of his juice from the other night.
Tylonol. No, he only had one left. Best to save it for it the fever truely raged. He'd 'known' through advice that Tylonol helped fevers, and had now discovered it by experience. Grabbing his measuring spoons - sweet, merciful measuring spoons - he poured out the cough medicine, fearful of spilling even a drop.
He wanted a shower. He didn't want to leave his room. He was hungry. Food could wait. North won't help you now, he thought. He dreamed of the tender roast-beef sandwiches they had at work, with the sweet relish, and cool, refreshing soda. Maybe a friend would get him something from the Cultural Center...
Times like these, he regrets not being at home the most. He had someone to take care of him there. She would know how to break a fever, better than taking tylonol and hoping. She would cook him up chicken soup - that miracle worker of soup. She would be there, by his bed, watching over him...
Food could wait. His world faded out again.
The sun was definately out, this time. How long had it been so bright? Spikes of hunger hit him even as he lay in bed, jaw clenched. Food could wait. He clambered out of bed again, but this time, he didn't stop at the door. The hall was empty, silent. He headed to the showers. For the second time in his entire life, a cold shower felt good. Mercifully, it didn't feel as good as the first time - he was recovering. He should shave. He wouldn't.
Back in his room, he dressed - long jeans and a button down shirt. For some reason, he felt helping the fever made more sense than fighting it. After all, the fever was trying to help him.
He boiled some water for tea, and some more for soup. The tea was too bitter, the soup too watery, but his body thanked him just the same. He sat down to watch the last few episodes of Trigun. A few, the sound didn't work, but it was back by episode 23. Episode 26 didn't work at all. The last episode, the end of it all, corrupted. It was enough to make him sick. Well, if he wasn't already.
Actually, he didn't mind as much. He didn't think much, either, which is likely why it meant so little. He accomplished something - mindless schoolwork his sadistic english teacher had given. Then he attempted to straighten up His Mess. He did a good job of it, too, making a large impact, though no one but he would ever know the difference. He slept again, this time, peacefully. He woke just before midnight - midnight, when his medicine would wear off and he would need his final dose for the day. Then, off to rest. In the morning, he hopped to get to work.
"Fourty Dollars" he mumbled.
"Yes, is Karen there? ... OK, thanks. ... Karen? ... Yeah, I'm not comming into work today, I've got a bad fever. ... Yeah, I hope to be in tomarrow. .. OK, I'll see ya."
He hung up the phone and crawled back into bed, mumbling to himself about the $56 dollars he wouldn't be making today. he was alseep before his room-mate got back from the shower.
Aching all over, he woke up some time later. He wasn't sure if it was two or four hours, or even just fifteen minutes. The clock helped him little - he couldn't read it, and even if he could, the math would be a headache.
A headache, like a giant vice, clamping down on his temples. At times it seemed someone were forching a Mac Truck into his forehead, or slowly, steadly squieezing the base of his skull like some ripe fruit. The only other sensation was heat - excruciating heat. He felt like he was in a dutch oven - no, he felt like he WAS an oven. He'd been called warm before, but now he simply radiated. In his half-aware state, he found it odd that his blankets had not caught flame.
His jaw was clamped tight, as though he were a diseased beast. He knew, on a basic, primal level, that if he loosened that clamp, he would cough. And in the same way, he knew he didn't want that. His world, a haze of pain, and heat, and shadow, faded out again.
When next he woke, his chest buned. Not with heat or flames, but with exertion. His coughing fit was uncontrolable. The drugs had worn off, and left him crippled by the need to cough and the pain it brought.
When he was finally able to control himself, he slid out of bed, lowwering himself to the floor. Can't fall down from here. He found the pills; sinus medicine and some 'herb' he was supposed to take. He downed them with all but the last bit of his juice from the other night.
Tylonol. No, he only had one left. Best to save it for it the fever truely raged. He'd 'known' through advice that Tylonol helped fevers, and had now discovered it by experience. Grabbing his measuring spoons - sweet, merciful measuring spoons - he poured out the cough medicine, fearful of spilling even a drop.
He wanted a shower. He didn't want to leave his room. He was hungry. Food could wait. North won't help you now, he thought. He dreamed of the tender roast-beef sandwiches they had at work, with the sweet relish, and cool, refreshing soda. Maybe a friend would get him something from the Cultural Center...
Times like these, he regrets not being at home the most. He had someone to take care of him there. She would know how to break a fever, better than taking tylonol and hoping. She would cook him up chicken soup - that miracle worker of soup. She would be there, by his bed, watching over him...
Food could wait. His world faded out again.
The sun was definately out, this time. How long had it been so bright? Spikes of hunger hit him even as he lay in bed, jaw clenched. Food could wait. He clambered out of bed again, but this time, he didn't stop at the door. The hall was empty, silent. He headed to the showers. For the second time in his entire life, a cold shower felt good. Mercifully, it didn't feel as good as the first time - he was recovering. He should shave. He wouldn't.
Back in his room, he dressed - long jeans and a button down shirt. For some reason, he felt helping the fever made more sense than fighting it. After all, the fever was trying to help him.
He boiled some water for tea, and some more for soup. The tea was too bitter, the soup too watery, but his body thanked him just the same. He sat down to watch the last few episodes of Trigun. A few, the sound didn't work, but it was back by episode 23. Episode 26 didn't work at all. The last episode, the end of it all, corrupted. It was enough to make him sick. Well, if he wasn't already.
Actually, he didn't mind as much. He didn't think much, either, which is likely why it meant so little. He accomplished something - mindless schoolwork his sadistic english teacher had given. Then he attempted to straighten up His Mess. He did a good job of it, too, making a large impact, though no one but he would ever know the difference. He slept again, this time, peacefully. He woke just before midnight - midnight, when his medicine would wear off and he would need his final dose for the day. Then, off to rest. In the morning, he hopped to get to work.
"Fourty Dollars" he mumbled.
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Hee hee...nice choice of music
Date: 2002-03-17 11:02 am (UTC)no subject
XO~
Nangie :-)c