mnemophobia | dh + pl

eight

a/n: uhg I'm sorry I suck at uploading. I'm really trying to get better but I've been so busy

tw: brief mention of eating disorders, nothing graphic

Dan's pov

I didn't need to open my eyes to know I was in a hospital; the hollow sound of my oxygen mask-induced-breathing and the sterile scent of a dozen chemicals were enough.

In every class to ever exist, there has always been "the sick kid", that one kid who always seems to be absent or taking early dismissals due to an array of illnesses. And on the rare occasion when they are in school, they're sniffling like mad and constantly clearing their throat.

When I was in school, that was me. I was the sick kid. Roseola, gastroenteritis, hand-foot-mouth disease, strep, the flu, chicken pox...you name it, I probably had it.

Thankfully, these were all short-term illnesses. Then there was asthma.

I was diagnosed with asthma when I was five. I had my fist attack while running around the playground with some friends. After ten minutes of being 'it,' I collapsed. I recall crying to my mom because I couldn't go play with the other kids at recess anymore, something I had just discovered the joys of in my youth.

When Phil frantically whispered "Run!" I knew I shouldn't. But I also knew I shouldn't get caught by the police.

I hadn't run in a long time, not like that. And despite my screaming lungs and the harsh, ragged cough beginning to tickle my throat, I couldn't stop. I had forgotten how great it felt to have your hair blown back by the wind and a well-earned stinging in your calves.

Did I wish I didn't have an asthma attack? Naturally. Did I regret running with Phil? Hell no.

My eyes fluttered open, squinting at the harsh, fluorescent light. If there was one thing I had always hated about hospitals, it was how colorless they were.

A memory of a young, petite girl with platinum blonde hair clawed at my mind, trying to surface.

Mandy.
When I was eight, my parents had divorced. All the emotional trauma and the fighting must have really worn on me because I stopped eating. I was already too skinny as it was, and the eating disorder really took its toll. I was admitted to a hospital/recovery center for eight months.

During this time, I met Mandy. She was a cancer patient a few years older than me, probably around eleven. We got along really well. I don't remember most if the experience, but I've been told by multiple sources that she was the only other patient I'd willingly talk to.

A lot happened in those eight months, but the only thing I remember clearly is sitting with Mandy in her room as the sun was setting, casting long, purple shadows across the white tile floors.

"Do you know why hospitals are so void of color?" She had asked (Mandy had a very advanced vocabulary for her age)

"What does void mean?"

"The opposite of 'full'"

"Oh. No, why?"

The doctors think that white is sterile—" She noticed my confused look, "clean. They're convinced the more pigmented—colorful—something is, the dirtier it is."

I looked curiously at the white walls. "That's dumb. Doctors are dumb."

Mandy laughed. "Yeah, they are."

As I got older, I eventually realized this wasn't the case, but I still enjoyed telling myself there was a smidge of truth behind it.
"Glad to see you're awake, Mr. Howell." A man with warm brown skin and dark hair—Indian, maybe?—walked in, snapping me from my thoughts. I'm Dr. Jindal,"