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slunch

Posted: Mar 6 2008, 06:23 AM

Group: Diamonds.
Posts: 1
Member No.: 25
Joined: 4-March 08

Name or nickname: call me dani or slunch.

Age: 15

Referred by:

Have you read the rules? yessir

Sample: (I hope a story I've been writing recently is fine for this. If not, I can get a actual roleplaying sample.)

QUOTE

They called him "The Patient".

I had never heard anyone call him by any other name. Aside from the doctors and nurses that treated him, I'm sure someone knew his name. But, still, even the medical staff called him "The Patient" behind his back. What kind of sadistic nickname was that anyway? - "The Patient" There were tons of patients in that damned hospital. But - somehow - it didn't matter whom you were talking to or who was talking to you, if you said "The Patient" with the right amount of infliction, they would know. Him. The Patient.

It wasn't that he was remarkable in any way. He was tall and thin, his weight due more to the illness than his actual diet - or lack of. His skin was pale and gaunt, pulled so tightly over his bones that they popped out in several places. It was a horrible sight, enough to make a die hard anorexic jealous. Like the rest of his body, his nose was long and thin. It was an absolutely gracious nose though, something someone would go to surgery hoping for. His hair was a vibrant shade of blonde that, in some lights, made it look like he had no hair at all. If he wasn't so ill, I'm sure that he would've been extremely handsome.

But, he was handsome either way. It wasn't the mystery of his disease or his moribund glow. It was his energy that made him attractive; the willingness to accept what was happening and still fight to live on. His vigour, he used to say, was the one thing that any disease or hospital couldn't take away from him, It showed through those mossy green eyes that edged his pupils in hazel, you could see it in the way that he held himself in any situation. That zest was something you never saw in any of the other patients on that floor.

I guess he really was kind of remarkable. He wasn’t like any of the other patients on that floor. He stood out immediately because he didn’t look like he was about to drop dead. It could be seen though, a vulnerability - a weakness. If he stood still long enough or if he wasn’t aware that someone was around, it’d be drenched on his face. It’d show in his body and his actions. The disease, whatever it was, was tearing away at him. However remarkable he seemed, he had the same story as everyone else on that floor.

He was there because he was dying. He was there because the world had decided that they had nothing else to offer him. This floor, it was like a storage bin for the ill. But, somehow, they put up the façade that the patients are being helped. The doctors gave them meds to calm them down, to relieve the pain. The parents sent social workers to talk to them and give them ‘healthy’ advice. Or, like they did to The Patient, to beg them to talk to a priest for the “safety of their soul”.

This was something they bothered with regularly, the priest thing. I encountered it myself when I was walking down the hall to visit my stepbrother. He had been furious that day; he was yelling and cussing, he was slamming doors and hit the walls - he was restless with anger and frustration. As I approached his room, a slender woman with bushy brown hair and a light complexion pushed past me and into his room.

“And I’ll be damned if you believe I’m going to talk to a fucking priest!” He screamed, throwing himself back onto his bed. The social worker looked as if she should be teaching kids to finger paint instead of bothering a dying young man on his mother’s wishes. “What the fuck is religion going to do for me that everything else already hasn’t? Tell my hag of a mother to stop fucking bothering!”

I leaned against the wall to the side of his door, leaning my head just enough to see the scene unfolding in his room. The woman glared at him, she was obviously tired of having to come around and deal with the boy on such a regular basis. She leaned toward his bed adn tried to look intimidating.

"I know you don't want to see the priest," she told him trough gritted teeth, "it's just --"

"Just what? You're paid to come down her and bother me. Hell, this is your job! This is my life, lady; I don't get paid to be here. So, if it'd be convenient for you, go back to my mother and tell her that I never want to see your face again." He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed dramatically. "Now, leave."

He watched as the social worker turned and stormed out. As I tried to move out of the way, she knocked into me, sending me to the floor. My back hit the the floor and my bag fell open. Things scattered around the hallway. I looked at the social worker, prepared to apologise. However, when I looked up at her, all she did was sneer and step around me to make her way to get to the elevator.

I scrambled to my hands and knees and crawled around the hallway, shoveling everything back into my bag and then closing it. I sat back on my thighs and sighed. Suddenly, two colour pencils were waved in front of my face. I looked up and there he was, looking at me with a analytical intensity. I tried to keep his gaze, but it was impossible. My eyes averted to his socked feet. A small "thank you" escaped my lips as I stuffed the things back into the bag. I looked back up and I noticed he had moved back to his room.

He stared at me for a minute longer before slamming the door. The click of the lock was followed by silence.

Surly	Posted: Mar 6 2008, 01:50 PM
Group: Admin Posts: 19 Member No.: 5 Joined: 28-February 08	Accepted. I was torn between putting you in diamonds or spades, however I chose to put you in diamonds for the way you conveyed your character's personality through speech. Welcome :)

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