365 pt 2

aug.15.22

"Father.... Mango?"

I look up from the medical magazine I was attempting to distract myself with at the concern accompanied with my last name being called. I drop the boring flap of paper on the shit-looking coffee table, and stand up from the leather couch with a godawful squeal. My dirty shitkickers audibly announced my lack of style as I make my way over to a lady with a clipboard, standing at the edge of the waiting room.

She looks me over, with a look of both disgust and confusion, before confirming, "You're Father Mango?"

I nod once. "The one and only."

"Father Killian Mango?" she slowly asks, like she can't believe anything that isn't inspired by UFOs and tin foil.

"Yes, Ma'am, that is my name."

She took an excessive moment to blink at least six hundred times, before turning away from me as she left the waiting room. As an afterthought, she called over her shoulder, "Follow me, please."

As my shitkicker cowboy boots clomp down the hall, I can feel people stare at me. As I walk, I glance down at myself: worn denim jacket with anarchy patches sewn into it, silver chains around my neck, ripped black jeans, shitkickers. The blurred black tattoos on my fingers seem to stand out more under the florescent lighting, not to mention the gleam that caught on my knuckle busting biker rings. As I walk, I can feel a dangling metal sword earring in my left ear hit against my neck, and the angel wing cuff make gentle ting noises on my right ear.

My style is comfort. Not classy.

The nurse stops at a room with the door open. She takes another long moment to silently judge me, before gesturing to the room. "You can see her now."

My teeth clench before I realoze the action. "Them."

"Excuse me?"

"Them. I can see them now."

"Father Mango. With all due respect, she's a female; her charts say so with her hormone levels–"

"–And as I'm sure you have all been told, they are not SHE."

"Don't talk any sense into 'em, Mango," I hear weakly coming from the room. "They don't fucken listen, anyways."

The nurse stomped her foot and strode off.

I shake my head as I enter the room; Elysium looked like a ghost in their bed. Their purple hair was growing out, and sandy brown hair sat at their roots. Tired blue eyes looked back at me. I recognized them, but they sat in a sunken face.

"Ely...." I couldn't find the words. Last I saw them, Ely was tan and full of energy. Now, they looked like they had one foot in the grave.

They exhaled, leaning back against their pillows. "Yeah, I look like shit, I know."

"How're they treating you?" I ask, pulling up a chair and slowly sitting in it; I felt that if I moved too quickly aren't them, it would hurt them more than they already were hurt.

"Like shit, Mango," Ely said, tears appearing in their voice. "You gotta get me outta here. They're gonna kill me in here."

"They're treating you, they're supposed to be helping you."

Ely shook their head. Leaning forward, they pulled back their blanket, showing their bare legs beneath the hospital gown. Ugly deep red gashes cut up their leg from their knees to their ankles.

"Dull surgical knives, ones they throw away. They test them on me before they chose what to do with them. I tried telling that shitty therapist they make me see. Fucker doesn't believe me."

I meet their eyes. "Why would they do this?" The anger was already surfacing.

They blinked; a steady stream of tears fell from their eyes."I'm a confused fag, Mango. Nobody's gonna miss me."