Setting
your alarm clock to wake you up in the mornings probably isn’t a good idea,
because it’s a hundred percent guaranteed to make your sleep and your bed more
comfortable than ever.
Tristan
groaned and then yawned at the next second as he blindly reached out for the
noisy clock with his hand and stuffed it on the drawer of the bedside table.
With another pointless groan, he flopped his head back to the pillows and
willed himself to sleep, but he knew it was useless.
The
sunlight from the seven am sun outside was streaming through his glass windows
and into the entire bedroom and he cursed himself for not drawing the curtains
when he came home. It illuminated everything it fell upon – the vinyl floor,
the king-sized bed, the mahogany bedside table, and the cabinet of the same
origin. And on Tristan. The room wasn’t air-conditioned at all, but he
preferred it that way.
Finally
giving up, he kissed his longed-for sleep goodbye and sat up on his bed,
ruffling his messy hair and automatically fixing the sheets. He’s always been
moving a lot in his sleep, but he didn’t tell anyone about that slightly
disconcerting fact as he picked the fallen blanket and pillows from the floor, which
landed probably about a mile from where his bed was. He asked himself thoughtfully
since when he was that jerky while
asleep. He may have too much sun.
As
he rubbed his eyes while standing in the middle of the room, clad only in boxer
shorts, his gaze accidentally fell upon two thick blankets resting on his low
table adjacent to the door, where his backpack for work was also placed. For a
moment, he thought he was hallucinating, and then he remembered the miracles of
the day before. Or rather, a few hours ago.
His
system was against the celebration of joy and berated him for only three hours
of sleep. But nonetheless, it was a solid three hours, and better than some
other days when he only got fifteen minutes of rest.
Preparing
himself for the onslaught of duty after duty, he spent the next minutes to
coordinate himself before going to work – taking a quick bath, choosing his
clothes, sorting his things out and cooking breakfast.
Correction
– attempting to cook breakfast. In
the end, he got another batch of Band-Aids on his hands up to his wrists and he
ate Thai food ordered exclusively just for him.
Tristan
had money to keep a cook, and also a housekeeper – a gardener, too, if he
wished – but he didn’t do any such things. He survived with the cleanliness of
his house through the help of a maid-for-hire named Mara Clove, who comes to
clean the entire house for a few hours in exchange of a good sum. He had grown
fond of her, even though they see each other only a handful of times.
As
soon as he finished his meal and cleaned off the table as much as possible, he
grabbed his bag and ran to the door. He was halfway across the plain, green
lawn when he did a one-eighty and sprinted back, realizing at the last second
that he’d forgotten to bring his little gift to his favorite patient.
Laughing
at that weird thought, he made his way more composedly out of the door this
time, and locked it, checked it three times before he was satisfied, and went
out. He waved a jolly goodmorning to his neighbor, Johnny Coul, an eighty-year
old retired soldier. His wife died ahead of him, and Tristan would never admit
it, but the old man’s time was coming, too. He never mentioned it when he spent
the weekend with the man, sipping tea.
The
traffic was light and in no time, Tristan was already ascending the steps to
the glass doors of the hospital. A warm surprise greeted him as he heard a
familiar voice, saying, “Good morning,” When he turned around, he already had a
smile on his face and he replied, “Hello, Kate. Good sleep?” he asked as they
entered the place together, side by side. Kate shook her head, her red curls
bouncing merrily as she laughed.
“I
only got five hours. Not much.”
“Well,
congratulations. I got two less.”
“Really?
Oh, of course!” She then launched on a half-scolding, half-worried rant about
his sleeping inside the secure ward as they passed through the front desk,
swiped their IDs and went up the second floor.
The
second floor was where the patient’s rooms were situated and before the two of
them parted, Kate’s last words were, “If you do that again, I’m going to bury
you myself.”
Tristan’s
appreciative laugh cheered both of them as he apologized and reassured her that
she need now worry. Once Tristan was inside his office, he put on his white
coat and brought his props with him; the book and the blankets.
All
his other appointments with his regular patients were distributed to other
doctors, of whom he was sure that can handle the responsibility very nicely.
They knew he had a particular case he was working on, as they had their own
experience like it, once. They helped recover some of the patients permanently,
but others weren’t so successful.
They’ve
never really been certain what was supposed to be done to help their lost
patients after the daily doses of medicines, other than to take care and listen
to them. Prescriptions and medications were just one hurdle and then it’s a
whole new obstacle.
It
was a little more time before he managed to get into the ward with all his
things. Pete Johnson certainly complicates things, but he does it for a reason.
They had a little misunderstanding – though, not heated – at the entrance.
Johnson wouldn’t let Tristan in with the blankets, saying it would be his own ‘downfall’,
and the book, too. His reason for that one was that he didn’t want the doctor
to fall asleep again.
So
now, with twenty minutes spent, Tristan was walking triumphantly to room 572.
His heart was drumming with anticipation as he slowed down and with extreme
caution, he looked through the glass.
A
leap of surprise and intense happiness lit him up as he saw Reeya gazing at the
door, as though expecting someone.
Him.
Her
eyes – which were blank most of the time – looked at him and he wasn’t sure if
he imagined it, but she looked a bit thoughtful. Then she looked away, back to
the same position he found her three days ago.
Almost
bursting with emotions, Tristan backed three steps away from the door and tried
to contain himself. He wanted to jump in the air, pump his fist, and shout out
his joy until he had lung failure, but all he could do in his present state of
mind was to put down his things on the floor, and stare at her door in
disbelief. Had it really been just three
days?
He
was unaware of the huge smile on his face, the only thing he registered was the
mind-numbing fact that she was waiting for him.
For me? He
asked himself for the millionth time, unable to believe. No, that’s ridiculous. I’m probably dreaming.
“Doctor
Devon?” A voice said.
“Am
I dreaming?” He asked the nurse with a hushed voice, who was staring at him in
worry.
“I
don’t think so. I mean…I’m awake, so, that means you are, too…” she answered,
confused. She was deliberating whether she should call someone or just walk
away. Probably the latter.
“Oh,
yes. Yes, well, thanks.” Tristan said in a daze as he remained there, staring
at the door until the nurse walked out of sight.
Then
he pinched himself.
When
he felt the pain, he breathed a small sigh of relief.
Good. I’m not dreaming.
No comments:
Post a Comment