Thursday, November 1, 2007

Curtained

Rog was very uncomfortable. Feeling entrapped amidst the masses of wires, curtains, and lights, a sense of claustrophobia began to pluck at his tired strings. He was very ready to be done with his hospital stay, though it had not really even been that much time since he had first arrived. He had a vague memory of why he was here and there was something about a black haired girl, but then time moved quickly in the mind and all he could dig out of recollection was a vague remembrance of the sound of ripping metal.

There had been a lot of people converging and then dispersing from his bedside. There were the doctors and nurses, EMTs and orderlies, and then there were the police. He had watched as they approached him. At first it had been amicable, then one of them, the shorter of the two, had gotten a little uppity. He had wanted to know where Rog had gotten the gun they had found in his car. He told them he did not have a gun and did not know anything about it. But there was a nagging feeling in his hurting brain that maybe he did know about this gun, he just could not quite put his finger on it.

They had left, the taller one, non-descript in cop quality, had told him they would check back on him. The shorter one just huffed away. Rog did not care. His head hurt too much.

There was a lot of movement beyond the surrounding curtains of his space. There were moans, cries, laughter, and boredom in the surrounding sounds. He listened closely for the voice of his mother.

Instead he heard the carefree conversation of what sounded like teenage girls.

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