it's just medicine .:. cass

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✨ zozo.
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Pronouns: she/her
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bloomtodeath

it's just medicine .:. cass Nov 12, 2013 5:57:57 GMT -5

Post by ✨ zozo. on Nov 12, 2013 5:57:57 GMT -5

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They don't call people into hospitals for just anything.

That's the first thing on your mind as you race through the halls, muttering "Shit" and "Oh, fuck" for no reason at all. You hate hospitals, they remind you of death and those on the brink of it, and nothing feels worse that watching a loved one teeter on the balance - you'd know first hand after all. Stumbling over your own feet, someone seems to have snatched all the oxygen from your lungs. Life falls around you, chaos crumbles at the corners of your mind (maybe it's just the walls but you doubt it), everything irrelevant except to keep on running. Within these walls people are crying, dying, living, getting better and getting worse. You're the latter - panic spinning you around and around, escalating by the second.

The telephone call still rings in your ears. Words like Miss Goravich and your sister Marina and accident and immediately were all you needed to hear. In a fluster you are swept away by your own clawing fear, clutching you in it's hands and flinging you across the District. "Goddamit Marina" you mutter under your breath, darting towards signs that point to reception. "What the hell have you done now."

Days have passed where you hadn't left the house, staring at your bedroom wall in denial. This, and only this, could have gotten you out of the house in such a rush. It's been a week since the news (and, of course, your own) and you've tried to be as optimistic as you can be. It's all you can be, really. Brave, and there for everyone. Your own needs have always come second to everyone else. It's hard to stay up late, past exhaustion so your body can slip easily to sleep without any troubles plaguing your mind, when bitter truths dance across the walls and seep into your ears. It's just fragments, like the phone call, but just as eye-opening. Tests and results and we're terribly sorry.

At first it seemed surreal, like a dream. What was it they tried to teach you at school all those years ago? Denial. There was nothing wrong with you, it wasn't your fault or something you'd done - it was your mother's, your father's, your siblings, the doctors. Anger. You don't think you're quiet ready for that yet - or perhaps you've just used it all up. Childhood memories of slamming fists and fiery words dance across your vision and you decide that there is no point being angry - you've used it all up. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. Ripred knows how you're dreading those - but nothing comes close to what the nurses may or may not be about to tell you, a thousand possibilities swarming in your head.

"Lyana-Goravich-my-sister-Marina-where-" you heave, slamming your whole body into the reception desk. A point of a finger and "Room 23 to the left of the corridor" is all it takes for you to take off running again. Doctors crowd around the door and disperse at the sight of you, one by one, until only one is left - like they're all leaving the task of giving you grave news to the oldest.

"Ah, Miss Goravich" he says, peering down at your flustered form through thin-rimmed glasses. Knowledge and wisdom is carved into his face at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead, yet still you are wary, bracing yourself for another round of denial. "I've been expecting you."

"And?!" you imply, parts of your old self blossoming - impatience, temper, blunt words.

"And she'll be fine."

The world stops spinning. Cracks in the walls join up again, plaster seals itself together, oxygen now pours into your lungs as you remember once more how to breathe.

"But she was a bit of a hassle, as you're probably well aware of-"

"Right, the crazy bit?" you finish, re-learning the rhythm of breathing. In and out - what could be so hard?

"Actually, Miss Goravich" he asks, a grave look shadowing his face. "I was referring to your sister's autism."

Oh.

"Her what?"

In and in and in and in and Ican'tbreathewhatishappeninginandinandinand-

"Autism, Miss Goravich. As in autistic. I assume you're aware of the term?"

"Yes, I just-"

"Didn't know?"

There is no air. There are no words.

None except "Can I see her?" followed by a nod of his head, a comforting pat on your shoulder, a crack in the door, and a smile.

"Hey, Marina."

Because what else is there to say?

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Last Edit: Nov 12, 2013 6:01:37 GMT -5 by ✨ zozo.

“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”

cass
Retired Staff

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last seen Oct 24, 2021 18:11:43 GMT -5

it's just medicine .:. cass Nov 13, 2013 8:33:55 GMT -5

Post by cass on Nov 13, 2013 8:33:55 GMT -5

I really couldn’t remember what had happened. But then most times when I end up bleeding bruised and injured I don’t know why I it was there. When I get angry I tend to hit things, but for once the injuries I had sustained that had lead me to end up in a hospital had not come from self-abuse, anger or bullying. For once it had been an accident. But then by saying that I’m implying that the million times I’d been bashed up by bullies wasn’t my fault. But it was. My sister’s knew it and my brother’s knew it. I got bashed up because it was my fault. When the kids hit me and sneered, leaning down to spit in my face and tell me just how crazy I am I’ve stopped arguing. At the age of twenty something years old I’ve given up trying to fight off bullies. At the age of god knows what, and me being an adult and all I still couldn’t stand up to a bunch of kids that wanted to hit me.

Sure I was very much capable of screaming fighting and hitting back, but I’d lost the right words to say to defend myself. The doctor wasn’t happy when I tried to bite him. He wasn’t happy either when I yanked the drip out of my arm and tried to run out of the room. But I was scared. People were grabbing me and holding me down, because apparently the burn on my arm, chest and stomach were bad. Apparently the deep bleeding gash on my left side could have punctured something important. But there wasn’t anything important there, really. It was all too screwed up and all over the place to be of any use. Maybe it wasn’t important for something, but what I needed was a better head. It was only when he read my file and figured out what the problem was did he get three other nurses into to hold me down. After that they got those special things that they put around your wrists and clamp to the bed so you can’t get up, or pull out the thing trying to drop god knows what into your arm.

I tried screaming after that, but when no one responded I gave up. With tears in my eyes and a pounding heart the doctor came back in and told me he was letting my sister know that I was there. It was the way he looked at me that got to be the most. It was like he hadn’t read the thing in his hands. It said, after all, mild autism. It didn’t say it was taking over my entire body, but when he spoke it was like he was speaking to a child, he drew out the words as though he hadn’t expected me to understand what he was saying. It sucked. And I hated him for it. Twenty years I’d lived with this, for three years I had kept to a secret. When I had found out about it I had refused to tell another living soul.

My family had no reason to know about it. After all it was my fault I was this way, wasn’t it? It was what they all said. Besides I didn’t want them to look at me like I was anything else, but insane. I wanted the anger, the annoyance and the hate. I wanted them to scream at me and yell my name and tell me that I was psychotic. Anything, but sympathy.

It was crazy how mild the autism was, the only thing that stood out the most in me was the behavioural issues, and well the part where I couldn’t communicate very well in terms of anything social. And also the parts of it that had lead me to essentially fail school. It was mild autism. I knew without actually knowing that I could think more clearly, so that was where I had assumed the mild part had come from. Either way I wasn’t going to tell my family, it was something I had to deal with. I had dealt with it for twenty years. I didn’t need their help. Not now and not ever. Pressing myself deep into the pillows I fought back the urge to yank at the things tied to my wrists. Instead I closed my eyes and forced the tears that had unexpectedly sprung into my eyes.

Breathing deeply I listen. It isn’t until Lyana enters the room that I open my eyes, dead, grey orbs looking directly at my sister.

"Hey, Marina." she says.

”Can I go home?” I reply weakly. And for the briefest of moments I’m not a vicious psychotic animal, but a little girl. Then it disappears and my hands tighten at my sides and I pull like a wild animal trapped with ropes. With a screech I yank myself backwards, trying to get my wrists free, I twist and turn, but as the pain in my side becomes too much I let out a strangled cry before going still. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut I look away from her, trying my best to hide the tears that had started to fall down my cheeks. ”I’m not. I’m not. I’m not. The doctor’s lying. I know he told you. I’m not.” I whisper.

I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing,
Just prayed to a god that I don't believe in
But no wise words gonna stop the bleeding
I'm falling to pieces, yeah
I'm falling to pieces .

marina goravich.