by Andy Love
Jason ranted and swore at the Doctor, pulling the IV drip, which crashed to the floor. The other patients observed with distain as the Doctor put his spectacles back on and crossed his arms.
“At least you’re alive, and still enjoying the life. Something for to be grateful, yes?” Jason continued to struggle. ”If you’re not behaving Mr Wicks, we’ll have to be sedating you.”
The Doctor called on the Nurse. “Bring me two milligrams of Midazolam and some restraints. I’ll give him an intramuscular injection.” Doctor Singh tried to hold Jason down until the nurse returned. They strapped Jason to the bed and the Doctor injected him. After 15 minutes of struggle, he slipped into unconsciousness and the ward lapsed into a welcomed silence, as the patients returned to their reading material.
~~~~~~~~~~
Jason awoke with a body full of agony and mucus sticking his eyes together.
“Ah, you’re awake, Mr. Wicks.” The voice arrived at the patient’s ears, as chocolate feels when it melts on your tongue, an irresistible audio to entice you to see the vision. Jason slowly moved his head to the right and saw a man in the chair with black flannel trousers and jacket.
“Hello, I am Pastor Nick Burns.” Jason scowled at the face above the white collared turkey neck, while the man rose from the chair toward the bed. His deep-set eyes, pallid completion and overgrown unibrow became clearer. When Nick got to the bed, the patient saw the wiry hairs. They stuck out from the Pastor’s nose and ears like an infestation of gangly-legged spiders. The smell of old smokes wafted from the man’s clothes as he grabbed Jason’s hand then shook it lightly.
“Pleased to meet you at last.”
Jason grimaced with pain. “Leave my hand the fuck alone, you stupid bastard. Fuck off. Go on, get the fuck out!”
Pastor Burns moved a step back from the bed. “There’s no need for foul language, my Son.”
“I’m not your fuckin’ Son, so get the hell out. I don’t need a bible-punching vulture hoping I die.”
“I’m here to pray for your soul, my Son. My Lord and I only wish to help you. Do you want help?”
“Fuck off you old git. Go pray for someone that gives a shit about religion.”
“Everyone needs faith, my Son. We all need something to believe in…”
“I don’t care you deaf old bastard, piss off.” Jason screamed over the pastor’s tender voice. “Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off…”
Nick laughed and leaned over the patient, his face became bright red as veins protruded. He pressed his right hand down on the patient’s chest and spoke in hushed tones. A repellent breath escaped the Pastor’s unclean mouth.
“Jason, your body’s fucked my Son. Let us lead you to salvation. I can take all your troubles and pains away, make you feel your old self again, if you want.” He released the pressure on the man’s chest and stepped back from the bed. “I can give you back a life, bring back what you thought were good looks.” Nick placed a business card on Jason’s chest. He tapped it with a long blackened nail, gnarly and misshapen. “You’ll call me.”
“I don’t need you, or anyone else’s help,” retorted Jason.
Nick walked out the door and gave a contact card to the nurse. The patient lay for an hour, trying to blow the card off his chest, but fell asleep from exhaustion.
~~~~~~~~~~
The months passed slowly for Jason as he recuperated in hospital, even in a drugged state. He caused too much trouble for staff: argued with nurses, refused medication, and deliberately soiled his bed. Sister Collins knocked on Doctor Singh’s office door and a muffled voice replied. “Come.” She stepped inside and sat down. Doctor Singh concentrated on the stack of paperwork in front of him and didn’t raise his head. “How can I be helping you today, Sister?”
“It’s about the Patient, Mr. Wicks. Everyone continually complains about the abuse they get from him, and they’re fed up changing his bedding. He’s a…”
The Doctor lifted his head and dropped his pen on the desk.
“I’m very busy, Sister. What’s Mr. Wicks’ condition now?”
“He’s got full movement of his right arm and leg, but still has difficulty with the left hand.”
“Okay, be calling the next of kin and get the release papers ready. Get rid of the man.”
“Thank you Doctor, and the rest of the staff thank you too.”
As she opened the door to leave, and the Doctor picked up his pen again, he called her attention. “Sister Collins, you maybe wanting to remind you, and your staff what their jobs are. Until you’re becoming Doctor, don’t be wasting my time with messy patients, that’s what you getting paid for.” With a flick of his hand, he motioned her to continue out the door.
The Sister returned to her office and telephoned Pastor Nick Burns.
“Hello Pastor Burns…Yes, nice to speak to you again too. I realise, Pastor, you’re not responsible for patients, here at the hospital. You visited Mr. Wicks and said that you would take responsibility for him, as he has no family.
“Yes, Pastor. His behaviour is disrupting my ward. I can’t have people like this…yes, I’ll let him know you’re coming in, and…” The Sister pulled the receiver away from her ear at the abrupt click as Nick ended the telephone call. She replaced the receiver onto the cradle and strode down the ward. When she reached Jason’s bed, she fussed over the chart and bedding.
“Well, Mr Wicks. It looks like you’re going home. The nice Pastor Burns will be in later to pick you up.”
“I’m not going anywhere with that bible-thumping moron. Just bring me a release sheet, and I’ll sign myself out.”
The Sister fluffed up the pillows behind Jason’s head and straightened the blankets.
“I’m afraid we can’t let you go home on your own. It’s against Hospital policy.”
“Stop your fussin’ woman. Piss off an’ get me the form.”
Sister Collins stood with her hands on her hips then lifted Jason’s wrist and checked for a pulse. “I can’t do that. If you don’t go with the Pastor then you’ll stay here for at least another few months.”
Jason stayed quite, angry, waiting for the woman to near. He suddenly slapped the Sister’s hand. “Go get the pug-ugly Pastor then.” Sister Collins yelped, and rubbed her hand as she walked back to her office.
~~~~~~~~~~
Darkness approached, when Pastor Nick Burns pushed Jason out of the hospital in a wheelchair. They entered a taxi, and headed for Jason’s home.
Nick pushed the wheelchair into the apartment, and Jason wriggled left then right as he tried to get blood into his numb buttocks. His eyes squinted against the brightness from the large floor to ceiling window. He dropped his hands to the wheels and tried to move away from Nick, but the wheels would not turn.
“Let go the fucking chair, you moron.”
Nick lifted his hands and faced his palms toward Jason. “OK, Jason.” He laughed. “There you go. I’ll leave you to get settled.” A contact card appeared in Nick’s hand and he moved it in front of Jason’s sight. “Please call me if you need anything.”
Jason swiped at Nick’s hand and the card fell to the floor. “Get the fuck out and don’t come back. I don’t need help from anyone, especially a sadistic bible-punching bastard like you.” Jason didn’t hear a verbal response, the rustle of clothes or footsteps fade down the corridor, so he turned his head round. “Get the fuck out,” he shouted.
He turned the right wheel of the chair and spun to his left, and expected to see Nick. He viewed the corridor via his open apartment door. Jason wheeled the chair over to the door, grasped it with his right hand and shoved. The door collided with the jamb as it thundered shut.
Jason looked up at the lock and raised his body with his right leg, but his strength failed, and he clattered to the floor. He crawled along the floor, to escape from the wheelchair that dug into his bruised ribs. Jason thought. ‘I can’t believe how difficult these stupid movements are, with a fucked up body.’ He lay exhausted, covered with sweat, and his face
pressed against the cool floor. The room fell into silence as he promptly fell asleep.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mr. Wickes awoke in pain and a cold darkness. His earlier effort generated a sweat, which now caused his face to stick to the floor. He crawled to the table lamp and switched it on, which impaired his vision for a few seconds. After pulling himself up on to the arm of the settee, he searched for his painkillers on the coffee table and swallowed two.
He dragged his body across the floor toward the wheelchair, and saw a grotesque bald headed body in the full-length mirror, on the wall opposite the window. “Only babies and insects crawl on the floor, you sad fucker.” The helplessness and insignificance of both infuriated Jason.
Jason looked around in disgust and anger, plucked a small stone fertility figurine from the display unit and threw it at the mirror. The glass shattered over the floor and created gouges in the wood. He crawled to the wheelchair, tipped it upright and managed to get in. When he wheeled his way to the computer desk, via the coffee table, he saw his reflection in the chromed fridge door. Jason retrieved the figurine and repeatedly dented the surface of the fridge, until his image became an unrecognisable mottle of colours.
Disabled now, with no one to assist or empathise with his situation, he sighed. His historical selfishness and arrogant manner were the better traits of Jason’s personality. In this time of need, his behaviour ensured loneliness, silence and a void once filled with acquaintances. His cronies declined his calls. They severed any association with an unprofitable burden, an onus at the other end of the electronic lifeline. He was ousted and unable to participate in any deals.
Jason struggled to pull the computer seat from under the desk and replace it with the wheelchair. Both obstacles created a difficult situation, with the one-handed burden. He created small interludes, which allowed him to vent his ire, by pounding the arm of the wheelchair with his fist. The arduous task was managed, but he didn’t understand why the wheelchair wouldn’t fit in the aperture under the desk. “Stupid fuckers. Why don’t they make it standard size for us folk?” He thudded the wheelchair against the desk a few times in frustration, before he calmed down and switched on the laptop. Jason’s boredom increased. He waited on the computer operating system to load, to give him windows to the electronic world. He remembered the groceries he bought a few days ago, and a pack of six beers in the fridge, which should now be chilled.
He returned to the kitchen area and put the chip pan on the gas hob. A chip sandwich would make him feel more human. He dragged a six-pack of beer from the fridge and returned to the laptop, waited for the computer to boot up and the oil to bubble.
He typed ‘Cheap cures.’ into the internet search engine, and hit the “Search.” button. Jason used the mouse to scroll through the websites, and occasionally looked at one, but none were right for him. Another search criteria, ‘Cheap cure disfigured’, and a website appeared on the screen.
A slideshow of disfigured bodies appeared at the left of the screen, accompanied with music. A promotion video appeared at the right and a man strolled in from the edge of screen.
“Hi, I’m Nick Burns. Are you looking for cheap and cheerful wonder cures? You too, can buy a miracle cure. For coughs, colds or scabby holes, your affliction is my goal.” The man moved closer to the front of the screen. “Right now, today only. I’ve got a special, money back guarantee for disfigurements,” Nick pointed out from the screen. ”Like yours.” Nick gestured as if he rapped his knuckle on the inside of the screen then spread his arms out to the sides. “Take a free trial, now. It’s a hot and wicked deal, so get a devil of a bargain today.’
Jason shook his head and closed the website. “Stupid arsehole.”
He could smell smoke and heard the oil crackle like an old vinyl record. “Shit.”
Before he could move the wheelchair to the cooker, the oil ignited with a small ‘pop’ sound. When Jason arrived in the kitchen area, the flames danced and grew as they reached for the ceiling. He tried to grab the pan off the cooker, but it toppled on the edge of the hob. It spilled hot oil and flames over his head, down his chest, into his lap, and over the floor. The kitchen ignited in a rage of flames. He screamed in agony as hot cooking fat sizzled on him. Jason tried to turn his wheelchair away from the heat, but the wheels slid on the oily floor. Frantically pushing his foot against the cooker, the chair propelled backward. His face burned as the skin distended under the flames.
The wheelchair slid backward away from the fire. Jason couldn’t stop it. The chair came to an abrupt stop at the window’s skirting. He crashed through the plate glass window and plummeted to the ground, where passers by managed to put out the flames. The apartment owners gawked at the commotion from the safety of their apartments, at the horrific mess their troublesome neighbour made on the pavement. They called the Police; complained about the fire, stink of smoke, and the inconsiderate noise the man created again.
Jason awoke in the back of an ambulance then swore at, and struggled with the medics. “Let me die. I want to die in peace.” He and the siren united in screams on their speedy journey to the Hospital.
~~~~~~~~~~
Nick Burns loomed at the bedside without a sound, and peered at the broken and motionless patient in the hospital bed. He made a disgruntled tick sound with his tongue as he shook his head.
“Not too good, Jason. You’re a rusty old car on the scrap heap of life; all broken up, discarded and ready for the crusher. Your bodywork needs a bit of renovation. I can help, if you want.”
The patient’s voice croaked, before he stammered an intelligible sentence through his wired jaw.
“I…I not live, no life. My body…so much pain. Help…me, help.”
His voice slurred with the heavy sedation, but his eyes pleaded the urgency to survive. He needed to exist; to have this ruined body restored – a return to handsomeness. This is his concern.
“I must say, Jason. Your skin reminds me of the inside of a cheese toastie. The way it melts and sticks to the bread.” Nick smacked his lips. “I’ve got an urge for a toastie, right now. But, down to business.”
Nick’s voice spoke in ascents and descents of Latin words as he gestured over the patient’s body. Jason’s skin reformed, the bones straightened, and he screamed in agony. He sensed changes in his body, and aware of his milieu as the pain subsided. A sensation of rage simmered inside him, until it boiled over as evil. The wires ripped from his jaw, the IV and monitor cables peeled from his skin and fell to the side. Jason jumped from the bed and into the corridor, and snarled at everyone as he drove an escape path through terrified people. He resembled a mad feral dog as he tried to savage staff who got too close. The beast charged through the ward doors as Nick laughed, and followed it into the main corridor. He threw his arms wide.
“Run my little mutt, run to your new life.” He shouted, as it ran on hands and feet. Jason barked and growled, his head pivoted from side to side.
Nick watched the hospital gown flap at the back of Jason. His bare arse wriggled as if two ferrets fought inside. Jason eased into an upright, but stooped and shuffled run. He charged through the main swing doors and out into the cold and wet night. His bare feet slapped against the pavement and into the distance.
~~~~~~~~~~
Mr. Wickes returned to his car showroom rejuvenated, keyed in the pass number on the lock and entered the warmth of the building. The torn hospital gown was discarded, and he admired his naked image in the glass partition, and realised there were no blemishes. He struck amateur body builder poses, smiled then kissed his biceps. The used car salesman pulled out a few hundred pounds from his safe and his emergency clothes.
Jason headed out to celebrate his newly found health. He mixed his drink in various bars and finally ended up at a local. Two women buzzed round him, eager to see the cash pour like honey from his wallet.
He tired of the false admiration from the females, and entered the dance floor on his own. He grooved his “Dad Dance” with
any shadow he could find. The song lingered its repetitious beat, and his muscles became stiff, moved with increased rigidity. His head pounded as a sea of onlookers surrounded him, clapped, cheered and whistled their encouragement. His muscles were incapable of flexibility, and exaggerated the erratic movements on his island of dance floor. The ocean of people didn’t care about his drunken state or the lack of elegant choreography in his moves. The song finished, and the crowd dissipated. Jason managed to stagger back to his seat. He squeezed between the two women, dropped into his seat, and bumped both of their drinks. Their true personalities surfaced as alcohol splashed on their best dresses. They leapt from their seats.
“What the hell, you clumsy bastard!” One shouted. They remembered the sight of his cash and sat back down. One of the women crooned in Jason’s ear to distract his ire as she scowled at the other. The two women shuffled their bodies closer to Jason, entwined their arms into the money-pot and cooed like contented pigeons.
As the effects of alcohol took hold, the two troll-like trollops appeared radiant. Jason leaned over and kissed one of the tarts, tried to grab a handful of her breast, but she recoiled from his lips and slapped his face.
Mr. Wickes grabbed the other tart, roughly groped her breast, and his tongue used her tonsil as a punch bag. He belched and acid burned its way up his throat. A ghastly smell entered her mouth and nose as lactic acid burned her bright red lips. She pushed Jason away as gas and acid escaped his throat again.
“Jesus, you’re like…it’s like, kissing my dog.” She shouted then wiped the back of her hand across her lips. Her friend screamed as Jason withdrew his hand from the fondle. The bright lights of the nightclub flashed and showed green blisters on the back of his hand. The two women stood up and threw their drinks in Jason’s face. They stomped toward the club bouncers, like Clydesdale horses on a cobbled road.
Alone in the club, he smiled as his blue tongue licked the drink off his face. He watched his stomach expand, and the material on his shirt strain, before a button popped off. It rang off the rim of the glass and into his drink. Jason laughed hysterically as his trousers tightened round the waist. They cut into his bloated gut, which gifted him with extreme pain.