With All My Senses

beauty within things

sight /noun

 the faculty or power of seeing                                                                                                                                         a thing that one sees or that can be seen

The next day I was once again at the hospital. Walking through the halls of the building and working out what the hell was wrong with me. Funny, I thought I had given up on that by now. I visited Charlie early in the morning, pretty much desperate for his healing touch; the voices in my head acting like a self-destructive tornado, working in every possible way against me. I spent almost the entire night at my flat, wallowing at my own fate and the unfairness of it all. Not answering any of his phone calls. The only good thing about the entire situation was that I managed to find my beaten-up cellphone and send him a text without the need to actually talk to him and hear the guilt-tripping concern in his voice. The simple text stated: "It's all right, really".

Not surprisingly those few words weren't enough, so I had to take some time to then answer his multiple questions; assuring him that it was really me and not just some kind of prank. It took a lot of persuading him not to come over. I just couldn't face him back then. I needed a second to breathe, just for myself. And the pain, well, I managed to work with that. The first time I met Charlie, it was at least three times harder. This I could manage. I could pretend that it didn't bother me, almost like it wasn't there.

Almost.

I went there the next day and headed to him straight away. We talked for a bit, over a spaghetti lunch while he held my wrist, ignoring the curious stares that he got. He told me about his day and the patients that he dealt with. And after about 15 minutes he mentioned Mrs. Wilson. I remember pulling my hand out of his grasp and getting more animated with my lunch. I didn't mention to him how much had happened between me and her, how strongly I was pulled towards her silent thoughts and the loudest of sorrows. I almost didn't react at all, not wanting to slip up. I just nodded my head instead, pretending that I wasn't that much interested in the subject and that my yesterday's reaction and worried state about her had already faded out. I was already a bit bothered that I slipped up last night. But I was worried, and I was interested so strongly that it took all of my effort not to jump up and head to her room. I was just waiting for him to finish, eyeing him like a sweet little sociopath while eating the food even faster than usual. He ignored my unusual behavior and kept talking, probably used to me acting in such a peculiar way.

He said that there seemed to be some minor improvement and quickly moved on to a different patient, leaving Mrs. Wilson behind. Well, he did anyway, but not me. I could feel my mind almost blazing with curiosity. My attention was drawn to the floor above us. I nodded to all his words and mimic his reactions. Annoyance, irritation, gratitude. I mirrored it perfectly, waiting for him to finish. Finally, his lunch break had finished. He quickly gave me a peck on the cheek and ran off. I felt the skin on my cheek tingle, but I didn't give it another thought. I was more or less used to his closeness by now. And at this moment my mind was focused on something else.

___

Some time later I went into her room, not bothered by anyone. I stood next to her bed for a while as she slept and then I gazed down, my eyes staring at the metal chart hanging in the front of the bed's frame. I picked it up and studied it. I didn't really understand the medical jargon, so I just focused on the basic information. "Mrs. Clare Wilson. Age 84. Female." I stared at those words as if they held all the answers to the universe, my eyes almost burning a hole in the paper and melting the metal underneath. I sighed, feeling somewhat deflated, and then put it back in place.