Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. It's spread across every surface of the plush study: the credenza, lounging chairs, coffee table, desk. Waylon thrusts his legs out from one of the chairs, raises a form up, and lets his body slide until his butt peaks over the edge.
He tosses his head back into the cushion on every other word. "Why — is this — so difficult!"
A door slams downstairs.
Waylon jerks, throwing his head back into the cushion again; harder this time. Hard enough to feel the wooden frame under the velvet, green upholstery.
Surroundings distort and spin with the pain; Waylon searches his hands over his scalp, shifting shoulder length black hair around. A hard knot sits right at the top near his crown. Knuckles white on the armrest, he scrambles up from the chair and hangs out the door to yell down the stairs. "I told you not to slam the door, Phil!"
Phil's unseen smile fills his words with a tender mirth. "Sorry, it's windy out there."
Waylon bounds down the stairs and into the entry way. "We live in an apartment, Phillip."
Knelt down, Phil fiddles with the laces on his shoe. He glances over his shoulder at Waylon. "Which form is that?"
The paper pops back into Waylon's mind, its weight now fully felt in his hand. He flashes the blank side and lowers it back down. "Name change."
"Still can't decide?"
"No."
Phil kicks his shoe off, turns, and wraps his puffy, winter coat covered arms around Waylon. "You don't have to, you know."
Waylon lets his head settle onto Phil's chest, the warm cotton sweater soft against his cheek. He slips his arms around Phil's back under the open coat. "I know."
Phil kisses Waylon's head. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Waylon brings his eyes up to meet Phil's. "It's just that —"
Something's not right with Phil's face. Features blur together, vibrate out of place, or just don't exist. Mouth agape, Waylon tips back on one foot and lets go of Phil's arms. What is this?
Phil steps closer, hands stretching toward Waylon. "Is something wrong?"
Then the world falls. Waylon's body tumbles end over end in utter darkness and he flails his arms around trying to find... anything. Phil's words echo back from non-existent mountains.
"Do you want to talk about it?" — "You don't have to, you know." — "Is something wrong?"
Then the world exists again, though far less. Grey. Waylon lets his head list to the side and pokes an arm out from under a tucked blanket and onto the empty side of the bed. His eyes close and he lets his hand rest there; its warmth seeps away into the cold pillows and blankets. Just a few moments longer.
The sun rise peaks through blinds. Waylon lets it warm his back and grabs a fistful of the blankets on Phil's side of the bed. Still cold. Distorted bubbles creep into Waylon's vision and his eyelids droop with the weight of tears.
And they overflow onto his pillow.
The corners of his lips tremble and he clenches his eyes tighter. Lamps and overhead lights flare to life; observing their unfeeling schedule and sending warm red and white speckles dancing behind Waylon's eyelids. He lets out a deep breath and rolls onto his back. "I suppose you're right, hun."
Waylon dredges himself up to the edge of the bed and glances toward a small mirror on a dresser. Waylon's head sits in the center: dark bulges underneath his eyes strike out against his pale skin and his tumbleweed hair is in desperate need of brushing. Tiredness narrows his eyes. He looks awful, he can't go see Phil's mom like this.
Nurses file in and out of the spacious lobby of the hospital. It's too orderly. People typing away at computers, printers spitting out paperwork, and a giant accursed analog clock ticking away, making sure everyone knows just how long it's been. All of it acting as a mask for the life and death struggles on the floors above.
Waylon observes the activity from a set of chairs tucked into a corner. His eyes dart back to the clock every few ticks and he bounces his heel. Twenty minutes. It never takes this long.
Just then, a nurse makes eye contact from across the room and beelines toward him. "Mr. Ishii? She's all set to see you now."
Waylon leaps up. "Finally. Was there a problem?"
"She's a little less cooperative today..."
With a heavy sigh, Waylon follows along behind the nurse.
They travel up a barren elevator, through a many-doored hallway, and stop in front of a door that's no different than the rest except for the whiteboard having "Gina" written in uneven blue ink.
A woman's voice booms from inside. "I said let me see him! I'm perfectly awake enough!"
Waylon shoots a wild-eyed glance at the nurse and bursts through the door. "I'm here, everything is oka—"
"And quit sending more nurses in here!" A metal tray smashes against the wall near Waylon's head and jello and beans spray in all directions.
Waylon's hands shoot up to shield his head. "I'm here! Stop whatever that is!"
Silence settles in and everyone exchanges glances. Waylon lowers his hands and Gina speaks. "Sorry. They kept saying I needed to rest and wouldn't let you come up."
His forehead bunches up and he glares at the doctor standing near Gina's bed. "I thought you all said visiting was fine?"
The doctor's steps towards Waylon. Dr. Crawford going by the silver name tag on his coat. His shrew-like eyes peering out from behind circular lenses; he gestures toward a clipboard and keeps his voice low. "She just got out of some physical therapy and she needs rest. Sleep would be best. You can always see her a little later, it's easier for patients to sleep right after."
Waylon shakes his head. "You'd rather me leave then?"
"Not now. Maybe show up a little later next time so she has a chance to sleep. She'll start doing physical therapy around this time every day."
Gina lifts herself up further in the hospital bed. "Don't talk about me like I'm not here. What's he saying, Waylon?"
Dr. Crawford raises the clipboard in a wave, "I've got other patients to see actually, so I'll be stepping out. Sorry to get in the way and please enjoy your visit."
Waylon waits for the door to close and glares at Gina. "Was all that necessary?"
She lowers herself back down in the bed with a snicker. "Of course it was. You were already here, makes no sense to send you away."
Waylon picks a chunk of jello out of his hair and flicks it at her. "The plate whipping was a bit dramatic."
"Drama is all these nurses and doctors understand. They all talk to me like I'm a child anyways so I'll throw a tantrum if that's what it takes."
Then Waylon gets his first good look at her. She's a living breathing skeleton: Her hair is sparse, her cheeks sunken, and the bones in her arms form hard edges just under the surface of her loose skin.
Waylon forces a smile and wraps his arms around her delicate frame. Her hands close around his back, but Waylon can barely tell they're there. It's more like a stiff wind than the woman he remembers lifting a keg single handed at his wedding. He guides her back down and lowers himself into a nearby chair with a grunt. "So what's this physical therapy?"
She swigs from a cup of milk on the tray beside her. "Mostly walking. They said something about it maybe staving off the degeneration. I don't know what they're thinking so you'll have to ask them if you want it explained. I'd rather watch my soaps, talk to you, and pass in peace than all this fuss."
Waylon grits his teeth. "Don't talk like that, there are still options. I found a healer and I just need the money to pay them."
"Don't do anything foolish. Speaking of soaps, can you pass me the remote? A nurse placed it on the sink over there."
Gina nods off half-way through the show. Waylon rests his head on their clasped hands for a while. He has to fix it. Phil has plenty of company up there.
Dr. Crawford peeks through the cracked door and clears his throat. With a sigh, Waylon squeezes Gina's hand and walks out after the man. A little ways down the hallway, Dr. Crawford turns, his beady black eyes surrounded by forced wrinkles. "So... She doesn't have long, son. You've got to start making plans. I can set you up in the lobby with one of our administrators to walk you through it."
Waylon's heart clenches up, its beat disappears in the freezing water filling his chest. "No, stop. Just keep her happy and comfortable while I figure it out. I can figure this out."
"Son, there isn't—"
The freezing water drains and lava fills its place. Waylon barges past Crawford. "I said I'll figure it out! Keep her happy. And keep your paperwork to yourself."
Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. It's spread across every surface of the plush study: the credenza, lounging chairs, coffee table, desk. Waylon thrusts his legs out from one of the chairs, raises a form up, and lets his body slide until his butt peaks over the edge.
He tosses his head back into the cushion on every other word. "Why — is this — so difficult!"
A door slams downstairs.
Waylon jerks, throwing his head back into the cushion again; harder this time. Hard enough to feel the wooden frame under the velvet, green upholstery.
Surroundings distort and spin with the pain; Waylon searches his hands over his scalp, shifting shoulder length black hair around. A hard knot sits right at the top near his crown. Knuckles white on the armrest, he scrambles up from the chair and hangs out the door to yell down the stairs. "I told you not to slam the door, Phil!"
Phil's unseen smile fills his words with a tender mirth. "Sorry, it's windy out there."
Waylon bounds down the stairs and into the entry way. "We live in an apartment, Phillip."
Knelt down, Phil fiddles with the laces on his shoe. He glances over his shoulder at Waylon. "Which form is that?"
The paper pops back into Waylon's mind, its weight now fully felt in his hand. He flashes the blank side and lowers it back down. "Name change."
"Still can't decide?"
"No."
Phil kicks his shoe off, turns, and wraps his puffy, winter coat covered arms around Waylon. "You don't have to, you know."
Waylon lets his head settle onto Phil's chest, the warm cotton sweater soft against his cheek. He slips his arms around Phil's back under the open coat. "I know."
Phil kisses Waylon's head. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Waylon brings his eyes up to meet Phil's. "It's just that —"
Something's not right with Phil's face. Features blur together, vibrate out of place, or just don't exist. Mouth agape, Waylon tips back on one foot and lets go of Phil's arms. What is this?
Phil steps closer, hands stretching toward Waylon. "Is something wrong?"
Then the world falls. Waylon's body tumbles end over end in utter darkness and he flails his arms around trying to find... anything. Phil's words echo back from non-existent mountains.
"Do you want to talk about it?" — "You don't have to, you know." — "Is something wrong?"
Then the world exists again, though far less. Grey. Waylon lets his head list to the side and pokes an arm out from under a tucked blanket and onto the empty side of the bed. His eyes close and he lets his hand rest there; its warmth seeps away into the cold pillows and blankets. Just a few moments longer.
The sun rise peaks through blinds. Waylon lets it warm his back and grabs a fistful of the blankets on Phil's side of the bed. Still cold. Distorted bubbles creep into Waylon's vision and his eyelids droop with the weight of tears.
And they overflow onto his pillow.
The corners of his lips tremble and he clenches his eyes tighter. Lamps and overhead lights flare to life; observing their unfeeling schedule and sending warm red and white speckles dancing behind Waylon's eyelids. He lets out a deep breath and rolls onto his back. "I suppose you're right, hun."
Waylon dredges himself up to the edge of the bed and glances toward a small mirror on a dresser. Waylon's head sits in the center: dark bulges underneath his eyes strike out against his pale skin and his tumbleweed hair is in desperate need of brushing. Tiredness narrows his eyes. He looks awful, he can't go see Phil's mom like this.
Nurses file in and out of the spacious lobby of the hospital. It's too orderly. People typing away at computers, printers spitting out paperwork, and a giant accursed analog clock ticking away, making sure everyone knows just how long it's been. All of it acting as a mask for the life and death struggles on the floors above.
Waylon observes the activity from a set of chairs tucked into a corner. His eyes dart back to the clock every few ticks and he bounces his heel. Twenty minutes. It never takes this long.
Just then, a nurse makes eye contact from across the room and beelines toward him. "Mr. Ishii? She's all set to see you now."
Waylon leaps up. "Finally. Was there a problem?"
"She's a little less cooperative today..."
With a heavy sigh, Waylon follows along behind the nurse.
They travel up a barren elevator, through a many-doored hallway, and stop in front of a door that's no different than the rest except for the whiteboard having "Gina" written in uneven blue ink.
A woman's voice booms from inside. "I said let me see him! I'm perfectly awake enough!"
Waylon shoots a wild-eyed glance at the nurse and bursts through the door. "I'm here, everything is oka—"
"And quit sending more nurses in here!" A metal tray smashes against the wall near Waylon's head and jello and beans spray in all directions.
Waylon's hands shoot up to shield his head. "I'm here! Stop whatever that is!"
Silence settles in and everyone exchanges glances. Waylon lowers his hands and Gina speaks. "Sorry. They kept saying I needed to rest and wouldn't let you come up."
His forehead bunches up and he glares at the doctor standing near Gina's bed. "I thought you all said visiting was fine?"
The doctor's steps towards Waylon. Dr. Crawford going by the silver name tag on his coat. His shrew-like eyes peering out from behind circular lenses; he gestures toward a clipboard and keeps his voice low. "She just got out of some physical therapy and she needs rest. Sleep would be best. You can always see her a little later, it's easier for patients to sleep right after."
Waylon shakes his head. "You'd rather me leave then?"
"Not now. Maybe show up a little later next time so she has a chance to sleep. She'll start doing physical therapy around this time every day."
Gina lifts herself up further in the hospital bed. "Don't talk about me like I'm not here. What's he saying, Waylon?"
Dr. Crawford raises the clipboard in a wave, "I've got other patients to see actually, so I'll be stepping out. Sorry to get in the way and please enjoy your visit."
Waylon waits for the door to close and glares at Gina. "Was all that necessary?"
She lowers herself back down in the bed with a snicker. "Of course it was. You were already here, makes no sense to send you away."
Waylon picks a chunk of jello out of his hair and flicks it at her. "The plate whipping was a bit dramatic."
"Drama is all these nurses and doctors understand. They all talk to me like I'm a child anyways so I'll throw a tantrum if that's what it takes."
Then Waylon gets his first good look at her. She's a living breathing skeleton: Her hair is sparse, her cheeks sunken, and the bones in her arms form hard edges just under the surface of her loose skin.
Waylon forces a smile and wraps his arms around her delicate frame. Her hands close around his back, but Waylon can barely tell they're there. It's more like a stiff wind than the woman he remembers lifting a keg single handed at his wedding. He guides her back down and lowers himself into a nearby chair with a grunt. "So what's this physical therapy?"
She swigs from a cup of milk on the tray beside her. "Mostly walking. They said something about it maybe staving off the degeneration. I don't know what they're thinking so you'll have to ask them if you want it explained. I'd rather watch my soaps, talk to you, and pass in peace than all this fuss."
Waylon grits his teeth. "Don't talk like that, there are still options. I found a healer and I just need the money to pay them."
"Don't do anything foolish. Speaking of soaps, can you pass me the remote? A nurse placed it on the sink over there."
Gina nods off half-way through the show. Waylon rests his head on their clasped hands for a while. He has to fix it. Phil has plenty of company up there.
Dr. Crawford peeks through the cracked door and clears his throat. With a sigh, Waylon squeezes Gina's hand and walks out after the man. A little ways down the hallway, Dr. Crawford turns, his beady black eyes surrounded by forced wrinkles. "So... She doesn't have long, son. You've got to start making plans. I can set you up in the lobby with one of our administrators to walk you through it."
Waylon's heart clenches up, its beat disappears in the freezing water filling his chest. "No, stop. Just keep her happy and comfortable while I figure it out. I can figure this out."
"Son, there isn't—"
The freezing water drains and lava fills its place. Waylon barges past Crawford. "I said I'll figure it out! Keep her happy. And keep your paperwork to yourself."
