seymoure | (no subject)

18.
“Blood Makes It Real”

He wondered what that awful smell was. Had Mehitabel spilled something and just gone wild with the cleaning stuff?

And it was too cold. He had told her a million times he wasn’t crazy about that air conditioner and would like to save it for only the uncomfortably hot days. When you used it in more temperate climate the room got so cold it was like a punishment.

He was just sure that hell was not all fire and brimstone, but constant inescapable cold.

Why was this room so bright? Even with his eyes closed this place was blinding white.

“Oh damn,” He thought, “I’m in the hospital.”

Cracking one eye open he claimed the prize for top detective, in this room anyway. There was another bed, and in it, he thought, was Tooley. He couldn’t tell for certain as there was some kind of plastic something over the head part of the other bed in the room and it prevented his seeing the face of his room make. But the arms were Tooley’s, being strong and hairy, from the knuckles to the shoulder.

Now he needed to figure out why he was here.

He reached up and felt a bandage on the right side of his face. It was small and not very painful, so he assured himself it wasn’t to much of a threat to his life.

Glass shard! Even the newest safety glass could cut you if it was propelled by a bullet. But regular glass would have probably done some worse damage to him. But, the head bleeds a lot. He knew that because he once knew a wrestler who told him they often cut their foreheads in matches because the great amounts of blood would ratchet up the audience’s involvement. Blood always said it was real, and that’s when the blood lust started in the seats.

None of this seemed worthy of a stay in a hospital room. Something else must have happened. He remembered not being able to catch his breath, but that was about all he recalled.

He would have to wait for a nurse or a doctor to fill him in on the details.

But, for now, he thought he might take a little nap.