Entry XXXIII--Why Do You Think They Call It Hope?
WILL LIKELY BE COMBINED WITH 'INCOMNPLETE', "HOPE' WILL BE THE TITLE
The cheap fluorescent light of this patient room stings my eyes, as they finally open ever so slowly. And that's with bandages partially covering them, along with most of my face. At least that's what I feel with my bandaged fingers. Without a mirror, it's hard to know exactly what's going on.
Obviously must not be in that bad of shape; no tubes connect any part of me to any life-support systems and no mourners are presently standing over my battered form.
Two things bug me; one is, I don't know what time--or day--it is. How long have I been out?
The other thing is; where is Cassandra? Is she laying in a bed of her own in another wing of this place?
Hell, maybe she's one bed over--my peripheral vision isn't all that right about now.
Then, as if by cue, Ms. Cabal enters the room, looking as fit and put together as I feel mangled and broken up.
"Darwin--I came as soon as you woke."
Don't need to ask if a nurse told her that; no nurse was necessary--she just knew when I awoke, like she fucking knows when everything happens.
"Thank you, Ms. Cabal." Such an extended sentence hurts my chest a little
"How do you feel, Darwin?" the concern etched in her tone hangs valid.
Ignore it for an impatient query: "Where's Cassandra?" After all, she doesn't have to ask me how I feel--she knows.
Still, Ms. Cabal is having none of it; "I know you are confined to a hospital bed and that you are in a considerable amount of physical pain and mental anguish, Darwin, but watch your tone with me, do you understand?"
"Yes, Ms. Cabal."
"Good. Cassandra has already been released from the hospital. She was treated for minor shrapnel wounds to the side and back of her head, but they were merely surface abrasions. You both were very lucky."
"Why isn't she here, then?"
"She flew back to San Francisco this morning, she had personal matters to attend to. She told me to tell you that you should call her when you get the chance."
My heart races faster at that news, and Ms. Cabal detects the glimmer in my eyes--pissing me off, for some reason. Like she's prying in on something special, even sacred to me.
Change the subject: "So, what's wrong with me?"
"A very mild concussion and a few minor lacerations on your face, including one that came dangerously close to your eye prior to Cassandra reaching you and shielding you from the rest of the explosion."
"So I didn't just imagine that--Cassandra actually pulled that off."
"That's why I hired her," Ms. Cabal assures me.
Something else occurs to me: "By the way, where the hell am I?"
"St. Anthony's Hospital in West Los Angeles."
"What is he the patron saint of?"
"Healing skin diseases."
"I guess whatever happened to my face counts for that, huh?"
"Sales of your book went up to 420 percent since the bombing," Ms. Cabal informs me, in a ever so matter-of-fact manner.
"And that's just what we wanted. Reckon we should schedule a bombing every week, huh?"
"Spare me your sarcasm, Darwin."
"I'm sorry, Ms. Cabal. It's the intense pain, remember?"
"I should inform you that the right-wing media is already accusing us of staging the bombing."
"Damn, if I had known that, I would've worn a goalie mask during the lecture."
Ms. Cabal cracks a rare, if slight smile.
Shaking off another layer of grogginess, another concern bubbles in my brain: "Speaking of the bombing, what happened to the guy who did it? Did they catch him?"
"Death caught him. It was a suicide bombing, Darwin."
That sends chills down the ol' spine, more so than I would have suspected. But then, maybe that's why the question was couched as to whether he was apprehended, not whether he was still alive or not.
Not sure why, but it freaks me out. Another human being actually killed himself over me; my writing; my book; my thoughts. Not only that--he was trying to kill me, and probably anyone else within shrapnel range...
...which inspires another question: "Was anyone else hurt or--"
"Two of your readers seated near the front were also sprayed with shrapnel and have likewise been released from the hospital with only minor injuries."
"So I got the worst of it?"
"You were the primary target, Darwin."
"After the bomber," I chuckle. "What was his name?"
"Brian O'Leary, 25 years old."
"Ah, a fine Ir-r-r-ish laddy, 'tis sure he was a good cath-o-lick boy!" I goof in a mock Irish brogue.
"You already think he was an operative under mind control," Ms. Cabal informs me.
"But of course. It has all the earmarkings of a black op conducted by fascist christian elements in US Intelligence. Am I wrong?"
"Don't you?"
"I don't care for that tone, Darwin."
"Yes, Ms. Cabal. I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted. You're tired and should get some rest. You need your restorative sleep to see you through this. If there are no further complications, I am told you should be released tomorrow afternoon sometime. You will be picked up by a driver I hired to take you back to San Francisco in a private town car, you should be back in your apartment by midnight tomorrow night. The driver is also a security guard so he can provide you with necessary protection. I'll be flying back tonight to the city, but it's best if you are driven because of your concussion."
"Yes, Ms. Cabal."
"When you up and about the day after your return, call me."
"Yes Ms. Cabal."
WHAT DO I LAY THERE AND THINK ABOUT
Did I catch a piece of schrapnel before Cass covered me?
Is Ms. Cabal standing over me when I wake?
The cheap fluorescent light of this patient room stings my eyes, as they finally open ever so slowly. And that's with bandages partially covering them, along with most of my face. At least that's what I feel with my bandaged fingers. Without a mirror, it's hard to know exactly what's going on.
Obviously must not be in that bad of shape; no tubes connect any part of me to any life-support systems and no mourners are presently standing over my battered form.
Two things bug me; one is, I don't know what time--or day--it is. How long have I been out?
The other thing is; where is Cassandra? Is she laying in a bed of her own in another wing of this place?
Hell, maybe she's one bed over--my peripheral vision isn't all that right about now.
Then, as if by cue, Ms. Cabal enters the room, looking as fit and put together as I feel mangled and broken up.
"Darwin--I came as soon as you woke."
Don't need to ask if a nurse told her that; no nurse was necessary--she just knew when I awoke, like she fucking knows when everything happens.
"Thank you, Ms. Cabal." Such an extended sentence hurts my chest a little
"How do you feel, Darwin?" the concern etched in her tone hangs valid.
Ignore it for an impatient query: "Where's Cassandra?" After all, she doesn't have to ask me how I feel--she knows.
Still, Ms. Cabal is having none of it; "I know you are confined to a hospital bed and that you are in a considerable amount of physical pain and mental anguish, Darwin, but watch your tone with me, do you understand?"
"Yes, Ms. Cabal."
"Good. Cassandra has already been released from the hospital. She was treated for minor shrapnel wounds to the side and back of her head, but they were merely surface abrasions. You both were very lucky."
"Why isn't she here, then?"
"She flew back to San Francisco this morning, she had personal matters to attend to. She told me to tell you that you should call her when you get the chance."
My heart races faster at that news, and Ms. Cabal detects the glimmer in my eyes--pissing me off, for some reason. Like she's prying in on something special, even sacred to me.
Change the subject: "So, what's wrong with me?"
"A very mild concussion and a few minor lacerations on your face, including one that came dangerously close to your eye prior to Cassandra reaching you and shielding you from the rest of the explosion."
"So I didn't just imagine that--Cassandra actually pulled that off."
"That's why I hired her," Ms. Cabal assures me.
Something else occurs to me: "By the way, where the hell am I?"
"St. Anthony's Hospital in West Los Angeles."
"What is he the patron saint of?"
"Healing skin diseases."
"I guess whatever happened to my face counts for that, huh?"
"Sales of your book went up to 420 percent since the bombing," Ms. Cabal informs me, in a ever so matter-of-fact manner.
"And that's just what we wanted. Reckon we should schedule a bombing every week, huh?"
"Spare me your sarcasm, Darwin."
"I'm sorry, Ms. Cabal. It's the intense pain, remember?"
"I should inform you that the right-wing media is already accusing us of staging the bombing."
"Damn, if I had known that, I would've worn a goalie mask during the lecture."
Ms. Cabal cracks a rare, if slight smile.
Shaking off another layer of grogginess, another concern bubbles in my brain: "Speaking of the bombing, what happened to the guy who did it? Did they catch him?"
"Death caught him. It was a suicide bombing, Darwin."
That sends chills down the ol' spine, more so than I would have suspected. But then, maybe that's why the question was couched as to whether he was apprehended, not whether he was still alive or not.
Not sure why, but it freaks me out. Another human being actually killed himself over me; my writing; my book; my thoughts. Not only that--he was trying to kill me, and probably anyone else within shrapnel range...
...which inspires another question: "Was anyone else hurt or--"
"Two of your readers seated near the front were also sprayed with shrapnel and have likewise been released from the hospital with only minor injuries."
"So I got the worst of it?"
"You were the primary target, Darwin."
"After the bomber," I chuckle. "What was his name?"
"Brian O'Leary, 25 years old."
"Ah, a fine Ir-r-r-ish laddy, 'tis sure he was a good cath-o-lick boy!" I goof in a mock Irish brogue.
"You already think he was an operative under mind control," Ms. Cabal informs me.
"But of course. It has all the earmarkings of a black op conducted by fascist christian elements in US Intelligence. Am I wrong?"
"Don't you?"
"I don't care for that tone, Darwin."
"Yes, Ms. Cabal. I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted. You're tired and should get some rest. You need your restorative sleep to see you through this. If there are no further complications, I am told you should be released tomorrow afternoon sometime. You will be picked up by a driver I hired to take you back to San Francisco in a private town car, you should be back in your apartment by midnight tomorrow night. The driver is also a security guard so he can provide you with necessary protection. I'll be flying back tonight to the city, but it's best if you are driven because of your concussion."
"Yes, Ms. Cabal."
"When you up and about the day after your return, call me."
"Yes Ms. Cabal."
WHAT DO I LAY THERE AND THINK ABOUT
Did I catch a piece of schrapnel before Cass covered me?
Is Ms. Cabal standing over me when I wake?
posted by Darwin Grimm at 1:03 AM
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