text: Stella Deleuze rants and other topics: June 2011
  Posted by Stella at 15:30 2 comments:
  Posted by Stella at 17:44 6 comments:
  And I laugh, and I cry, and I run – into his open arms.
  Posted by Stella at 17:50 No comments:
  You are hungry, so you go into the kitchen, sharpen your knife and get to work on the peppers – and, very unfortunate, your fingertips. "Ouch!" you mutter annoyed and run your bleeding finger under cold water. Not that it makes any difference, but it can't do any harm, can it? You switch from the coloured water to the half-prepared dinner and curse another time, then wonder how to tackle the way from the kitchen into your bathroom without unnecessarily decorating the floor.
  "Name?" You give her what she asks for.
  "Date of birth?" Can I lie? You shift uncomfortably from one foot to another. And eventually whisper your answer. She repeats it loud and in a firm manner. Thanks for that!
  One look at the heaps – supposed to be people – reveals, you are the main attraction and since they are so bored with waiting, even information about your bowel movements will entertain them. When she's finished interviewing you, she says what you hoped not to hear, "It's quite busy, take a seat, someone will call you."
  "Oi!" You turn around to stare at one of the children behind you, smugly grinning and waving with its plastic animal. They really need a sign outside: "Dogs and children have to wait here"!
  Doctors and nurses head from one end to the other and you and the people in the waiting area move their heads as if they're watching a tennis match. Your name's called and with your hopes up, you pipe a "here". It's one of the nurses who came to assess if you're an urgent case or not. When she reached out to remove your bandage, you hiss at her which makes it apparent you're not in danger to lose consciousness any time soon. With no chance of getting out here in the next fifteen minutes, you rummage in your bag and dig out a cereal bar. When you are about to rip it open, the half-zombie next to you gurgles and splutters, making you cringe. Probably best to just call the undertakers.
  "Iwona?"
  "No, no, I don't know, hurting, it hurting." Iwona weeps and points to her foot.
  "How did you do it?" the nurse tries again.
  More pointing and then, "I'm scary!"
  "Help! Help!" A cry, louder than your music rips you out of your trance and you look up. A young guy, followed by three others, shuffles towards the desk, his hand pressed to a blood-soaked shirt.
  "He's been stabbed, he's been stabbed. Man, this guy just came and stabbed him," one of the followers rushes out an explanation. Everyone's eyes are on the scene which reminds of a crime flick. Immediately, he's guided through the right hallway, where the heavier injured people are treated. A middle-aged man appears to mop the floor, everything's back to 'normal'. Another person lowers himself next to you, pale, moaning and rocking back and forth. You don't even want to know what his problem might be.
  Eventually, your name is called and you walk into the room with many chairs and a few curtains closed. A friendly, but clearly overworked doctor comes to see you. Removing the bandage, which, by now, sticks to the wound hurts and you don't care if the whole hospital can hear you and let out a loud whimper. The doctor tries with humour, but it fails, you're in pain. He takes a thorough look at your finger, then orders the nurse to do the dressing. You're lucky, everything will heal fine. When the nurse comes in, she proves that a smile can hide an evil personality. Not taking prisoners, she grabs your finger and presses as if she wants to take out all her anger at it. You feel as if your eyes pop out and shriek,"Ouch!"