Snakes & Scoundrels

22: ward 922

Cancer (not the zodiac sign, the disease)

I think the writers of The Vampire Diaries used cancer as inspiration while creating the character of Silas. 

No, I'm not being sarcastic. Just weigh the similarities between the two of them—they're both immune to lifespan, aging, and nourishment, they're independent of reality, they're indestructible, overconfident, they both need a cure that seems next to impossible for humans to conquest, they mess with minds, infect families, shapeshift into humans, and just like one never knew who Silas was at one point, we too can never identify who's cancer's next victim. 

Silas is cancer. Or cancer is Silas. 

"You look dead. Do you want a bite?" Carol poses her question while chewing her Subway sandwich.

Even though I didn't order her one, I can make out the roasted chicken, her chosen toppings, and all the sauces from how loudly and nastily she's chewing. 

Carol assumes her stretcher bed to be Queen Victoria's throne chair. She thinks visiting or staying in the hospital is her chance at getting a vacation. People scurrying to her at the press of a button, having nurses at her beck and call all day, ordering non-stop food and eating it like she's never seen the damn dish before in her life--but most of all, this woman who had a heart attack two days ago, suffered from extreme breathlessness to an extent where Nina had to 911 her in the middle of the night through an emergency ward for a quick surgery and continuous chemotherapy, radiation therapy, and medications, cannot just casually ask me if I wanted a bite from her stupid subway sandwich. 

I push my tiny blue visitor's chair as I stand up with eyes ready to snap this woman once and for all. "I look dead? I LOOK DEAD?" I take the subway box from her eating board that's attached to her stretcher and yank it to the ground. "YOU ALMOST REALLY DIED. YOU HAD A HEART ATTACK. Wasn't lung cancer enough, Carol? You had to make things more complicated." 

I was hoping to terrify her at least a little, but all she did was stop chewing for five seconds before resuming to munch like a donkey. "Tesni, it's not like I purposely made my heart stop beating for a few seconds." 

"But you smoked!" I pull the roots of my hair. "Two cigarettes!" 

"One and a half," she rolls her eyes. "I'm firing Dora for ratting on me." 

I laugh in pure mockery. "Yeah? You can do that if you make it back home. But if you do come back home and if you do fire your favorite chef whom you deported from Mexico, what will you eat? Forget cancer and heart attack, your cause of death will be hunger and starving!" 

She blinks, then chews, and finally admits. "Good point." 

Ward number nine twenty two was a seven-star private ward that was forever reserved for Carol Rory Forbes. She'd donated so much to Southshore Hospital that the authority was ready to grant her this one wish. Her desperate desire to be treated in the same 922 ward from the very beginning. Every time Carol paid a short trip to Southshore, the ward was cleared, cleaned, and designated for her. 

I, from the very beginning, was sick of Southshore. And now this stupid ward. The same yellow walls with the same wall frames of sceneries, the same huge television screen, the same cream hospital bed, another extra green bed, those varying shades of blue scrubs match the lonely little blue rotating chair, doctors with their scientific terms mixing the air with their medicines and the constant smell of lavender reminding me of death, bad memories, and a ton of blood. 

If there was one place I never wanted to step inside, it was Southshore. Specifically this ward. Nine twenty two. 

I don't think it was a coincidence but this sure feels haunting every damn time.