RED PARALLEL

Chapter 53: Can't Calm My Ass Down

So there was no HIV. No AIDS. But that just wasn't right. It was impossible to feel a shred of relief because he didn't have time. Soon enough, his mind was intoxicated by all sorts of death wishes. The sequence was an aggressive gallop, pumping inside his head, blocking all the reason, making him forget he was alive, that he was supposed to live, that he would, yes, live. Just no.

It first started with the doctor. Yeah. Traviz would be injected with the most virulent and fatal poison, and then he would burn in less than a minute, all parts of his body turning into screaming ashes. There was another option. The hospital would collapse its building and all the rustiest pillars and the heaviest concretes would crash over his head, and his brain would crack in half. Or, the guy next to him would wake up and choke him to death. Very simple. Or maybe the infirmary would be invaded by berserk Dobermans that would jump at him and eat him alive, all his empty flesh being ripped off like paper. And the world would watch him die and mourn the tragedy over such a special and irreplaceable person. The world would feel so empty, so regretful, ashamed to have neglected his needs, to have left him abandoned in the streets, starving, lonely.

Or. He could stand up, grab the nearest metals and syringes and stuff, and kill all the motherfuckers. The sick and the healthy people. Everyone. Because it wasn't fair to be fucked up while the others smiled and lived normally, breathing and stuff. Like Rachel. She sucked. Her sunshine vibe was a joke, so fake, so annoying, so unbearable. If he only had a gun, a rifle, a set of knives, of stones, of bombs, of cannons...

After exhausting all the assassin and suicidal possibilities he could think of, his body decided to act, whether because of some inner force or because the staff simply stopped giving him the anesthetics shits. One way or another, he could now talk - in ridiculous mumbles - move his right leg and shake his left leg a little bit. Both arms could now attempt to remove the needle whenever he wanted to, as well as raise plenty of middle fingers to whoever passed in front of him. At the end of the month, Traviz was elected, by himself, the rudest awesome dude in the room. On mornings he'd sleep, on afternoons he'd feel the dark cloud choking him, and at night he'd cry for hours.

Things were getting complicated. Not for him, exactly. But to the hospital staff. Traviz was recovering the strength in his arms, and now it was the third time he had attempted to jump out of bed, claiming he had to get out, otherwise he'd blow that hospital up because he had a gun under his pillow and he was not afraid to use it. For the first time, a woman tried to talk to him and suggest to take him for a ride in a wheeled chair. After being verbally harassed by the sassy sick guy, she dropped her kind initiative.

But he wouldn't give up. It was his last shot of life, he knew that. So on a lucky afternoon, while the grey cloud was creeping through the room and ready to attack him, Traviz saw the light. Next to him, a new patient was brought to the bed, and he carried a pair of crutches. The fool left it so near, so under his reach.

The serum was at its last drop, so he was fueled with the stupid food.

So he grabbed it. And pulled it. And stood the fucking up.