79: Everything where it belongs.
Everything where it belongs.
Chapter published 26th August 2015
*******************
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, the droning electrical buzz filling his ears as the twin chemical smells of antiseptic and floor cleaner clawed at his nose. At the far end of the stark white corridor, one of the ancient bulbs finally died, leaving a small patch of wall in partly lit gloom compared to the rest of the brightly illuminated, clinically appointed hospital ward.
With outstretched fingers running along the closest wall, Lero stumbled forward, his battered old Chuck Taylors squeaking against the worn and over-polished floor tiles. The mottled white paint was rough under his fingertips - old, worn, still dirty here and there even after years of repeated washing.
It all felt so real, smelt so real. He breathed in, deeply, holding the breath in for as long as he could. Heck, it even tasted real.
He was alone, walking the halls of the deserted hospital - corridor after corridor, hallway after hallway. Every room he came to was empty, every bed unoccupied, every chair left vacant. The silence was deafening. He called out, receiving no reply but his own voice echoing from wall to wall and back again.
His right hand felt strange, as if someone was holding it, squeezing his palm, massaging the back of his hand with their fingers. He held it up before him, fingers spread. He could could still feel it - a deep chill against his palm, an insistent pressure. Within seconds it was gone, normalcy returned, for whatever that meant.
He wandered. passing abandoned medical equipment along the way: heart monitors, portable scanners, blood oxygen multi-meters with attached pressure cuffs hanging loose, so many other devices that he couldn’t even begin to fathom their uses.
Most were left up against walls, their displays dark, obviously parked out of the way, waiting to be wheeled into action. Others were left haphazardly in the middle of rooms, blocking doorways, pushed up against bedsides, some still with power flowing through their circuits. Every so often one would beep at him as he passed - their displays registering a disconnected state, the occasional LED flashing as they waited for either input or interaction that would never come.
Something caught his eye, in the mirrored glass installed in the glass of a private room’s door. Moving closer, a hand moving to his chin, he checked out his own reflection. He looked... well, he looked like crap. His beard was gone, his fingers roaming over at least two days of stubble that graced his features in its place.
His long hair was gone as well, replaced with a much shorter style, the likes of which he hadn’t sported since college. The strands looked greasy, unwashed, sticking up in short spikes here and there, flattened against his skull on one side as if he’d recently been sleeping on it. His braid was gone, Rainbow’s feather nowhere to be seen.
He looked awful... but so young as well. Late teens maybe? Very early twenties? Either way, he could do with more sleep, and definitely a good feed. His face looked gaunt, his eyes sunken, dark rings beneath them made him look like Deadpool drawn in washed out grey and mottled pink.
His clothes looked just as bad - a rumpled red and black checked flannel shirt with a plain white t-shirt underneath. Neither looked fresh. His pinched the t-shirt’s collar between two fingers and gave it a sniff. Neither smelt fresh, either. He wasn’t even going to consider trying it with the dirty-blue Levis or grubby Converse.
A sudden ‘click’ made him turn. A thermostat somewhere in the vicinity registering a drop in temperature had triggered the building’s air-conditioning system, pushing cold air down towards him from a nearby ceiling unit with a definite ‘whoosh’.
He backed away, causing a clatter as he pushed ass-first through a thin pair of double doors that separated this new section of corridor from the last. The doors swang closed behind him, blocking off the noise of the AC, covering it with their own ‘slap, slap, slap’ as they finally came to a rest.
Wandering again, he came to a nurses station. PIles of clothing lay all around - a pile of pale blue here, piles of light green there and there, a pile of dusty pink across one of the chairs by the work station. By or beneath each pile was pair of identical plain-white comfortable-looking running shoes, all the same make and style. An old name made its way up from the back of Lero’s brain... ‘Adidas Air Force One’, prison white, all clean and cared for though all obviously well used. Maybe the hospital had gotten themselves a discount for buying them in bulk.
He leant down, scooping up a stethoscope from where it lay atop the closest pile of cloth. The owner had written their name on it with a black Sharpie. ‘Dr Anne Mitchell’. Nudging the cloth pile with his foot, Lero found a small name tag that gave the same name.
From somewhere behind the nurses’ station came a soft, yet insistent, electronic tone. Taking a few seconds to recall the meaning attached to the sound, Lero remembered it was a standard Microsoft Windows notification noise, specifically an ‘awaiting confirmation’ beep.
Moving around the station, Lero found all but one of the large touchscreen monitors behind it displaying their screensavers - the Dell logo bouncing back and forth across the otherwise plain black screens. The one screen still showing its desktop had a multitude of open windows on display, the most prominent blinking a message that it too would go into screensaver mode if an authorised user did not touch the screen in twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight...
Reaching out, Lero pressed a fingertip against the screen, feeling the slight give in the display’s touch-sensitive outer layer. The screen acknowledged his screen-tap with a soft ‘beep’, but then almost immediately flashed up a message declaring that his fingerprint had not been recognised and asking if he’d care to try again. The question soon became moot though as the countdown reached zero and the desktop faded away, just to be replaced with the manufacturer’s bouncing logo.
A clattering by his feet caught his attention. Looking down, he found a cheap ballpoint pen laying by his right foot. He must have knocked it off of the nurse's desk when he’d been playing with the display.
Bending down, he picked it up, feeling its smooth plastic shaft between his fingers. He hadn't touched anything made of plastic in years, and it felt so... strange - so light, and smooth like glass, but not cold, but slightly greasy maybe. He held it up, running his thumb along its bright yellow barrel, his nail catching against the tiny raised lettering of the BIC logo.
Tossing the pen back onto the desk - the implement rolling awkwardly across the polished surface before coming to a stop between a mostly drained Starbucks skinny latte, belonging to a ‘Karole’ if the scrawl was to be believed, and a half finished Twinkie - Lero’s eyes had been caught by the colourful mural painted on the opposite wall.
Rounding the nurse’s station, it only took a few steps for lero to reach the mural, the vibrant greens and blues and browns holding more colour on a single ten by six patch of wall that he’d seen across the rest of the hospital combined.
The images were obviously designed by children, but painted onto the wall by a professional. The forms were childish in design, yes, but the paintwork too precise, the edges too deliberate, the joins too neat to have been laid down by young hands. A smaller, simpler. poster-paint on construction-paper version of the mural stapled to the wall nearby confirmed Lero’s assumption, a piece of legal stapled underneath it gave the name of several children from the hospital’s in-house day care program that had contributed to its design.
Beneath a sky of cerulean blue and atop a grass of turquoise green, a single bunny rabbit chewed on an oversized carrot of brilliant orange while a lone deer daintily nibbled a low hanging leave from a single tiny apple tree. From one top corner a bright yellow sun smiled a wide, toothy smile as it cast forth wave after wave of sunbeams while, in the other high corner, a dull, gray moon sat and pouted. From behind a flimsy white picket fence a gaily painted peacock pranced, proudly puffing out its pride and joy. From within the painted tail, a thousand staring eyes gazed deep into Lero’s soul and he had to look away, a distinct feeling of unease washing over him.
Moving off down the corridor, swiftly leaving the mural behind him, he found a large noticeboard, full of flyers and posters, notices and reminders, all hanging from its surface.
A large, full colour poster extolled the importance of using the handwash bottle provided to prevent the spread of infection - together they could make the world a cleaner place.
Aah, self-help group news. The Tuesday night Chemical Dependency group was now in room three thirteen - donuts and coffee were still provided as well as low calorie alternatives - Remaining Men Together was now on Thursdays, Blood Parasites was now first and third Wednesdays swapping with Alcoholics Anonymous.
Had he remembered his holiday vaccinations? - Ebola was on the rise in South East Asia as well as making a resurgence in West Africa.
Oooh, a charity swap meet and BBQ this coming Sunday at Lincoln Park Community Church - apparently he should bring the kids for fun and games on the bouncy castle.
Reaching out, he took the edge of one of the posters between a forefinger and thumb, rubbing the paper between his digits. It felt so smooth, so glossy - not at all like the rougher, more natural paper of Equestria. There was a small whiteboard stuck up on the wall next to the notice board. pushing a finger hard against it, he pulled downwards, a shrill squeak echoing around the corridor as his digit slid down its shiny face.
Moving on, moving on. More corridors; all empty, all devoid of life.
In the middle of a corridor he found an empty gurney, turned sideways, blocking his way. A hospital gown poked out from beneath a single rumpled sheet, the loose circle of a RFID wristband teetering on the bed’s edge, ready to fall to the ground at the slightest disturbance.
At the side of the bed, two piles of doctor’s greens lay heaped atop pairs of the hospital issue running shoes, an expensive looking Omega Seamaster sitting between the two piles. The nametag on one pile read “Dr J Miller, Cardiologist”, the other “Dr T B Armstrong, Pulmonologist.” Not far away the pink silicone ring of a breast cancer charity bracelet lay on the tiled floor, its short lived roll of freedom thwarted by the corridor’s wall.
On the edge of the gurney sat a digital clipboard, the display still active, its screensaver not yet active. Lero picked it up, finding it still displaying the medical records of whomever the mobile bed’s previous occupant had been. ‘Jessica’... her name had been Jessica.
Jessica Johnson, aged seventy two. Cause of death: Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, Date and time of death: March the twenty second in the year two thousand and twenty four, fourteen fifty two hours.
Turning the tablet over, placing it face down on the gurney, Lero left the bed where it was, untouched, unmoved. There had been a ‘T’ intersection not so far back, he could always try going the other way around. It wasn’t like he knew where he was going anyway.
Through the halls he wandered, past empty rooms, crossing deserted junctions. Machines beeped, lights buzzed, the AC whooshed, his Chucks squeaked... and it took some time for him to realise what was missing. Windows, there had been no windows. Surely by now he should have seen a window to the outside world.
And even with no windows, surely, unless the building was underground, he should still be hearing some noise from the outside. No matter how sturdily a building was constructed, how thick the walls, some noise should still have seeped in. If the building had doors, someway for the public to get in and out, sound must be getting in, no? The steady rumble of heavy traffic? The roar of planes overhead? The ever present background drone of the internal combustion engine that humans seemed so good at tuning out? But no, there was nothing.
A dead end had him doubling back, trying another side route. Up ahead he spotted something he hadn’t seen in a long, long time - its bold red and white livery and large curly script a blast from the past.
Standing alone against a wall - save for recycling bin sat next it, patiently waiting for the emptys - was a Coke machine, its glass front showing that it was fully stocked with all of Lero’s favourites. Five different types of Coke, two of Sprite, six flavours of Powerade... Lero hadn’t tasted any of them in years.
The machine beeped, a digital message scrolling across its clear glass front in nice, big, friendly letters, reminding him to take his purchase. He looked down... there was a can sitting in the purchase slot, just waiting to be picked up.
Reaching down, he plucked the still cold can from the machine... Urgh, Dr Pepper! Why did it have to be the one thing in the machine that he couldn’t stand. Thanking him for his purchase, the machine snapped the collection window closed, whirring away happily to itself as the selection arm rolled back into its standby position.
At the foot of the machine lay a pile of pink and black lycra, abandoned between a pair of purple and grey Nike jogging shoes. Also at the foot of the machine was an iRun wristband as well as what was probably its associated iPhone. Whoever this jogger had been, she must have been part way through using her phone to pay for a soda when... whatever had happened to her - and everyone else - had happened.
After staring at the top of the can for what felt like forever, Lero remembered that you had to hook a fingertip under the tab and pull upwards, the can’s seal breaking with a satisfying ‘pssst’ as he did so. Carefully, he took a swig, the effervescent nature of the carbonated beverage tickling the end of his nose as the bubbly liquid did the same to his tongue.
Yep, still tasted like fourteen special flavours of blurgh.
Lero
He turned at the sound of his voice, his name echoing off of the walls, the soda can hanging from his fingers, dangling forgotten.
Lero
There it was again... a woman’s voice. A women he hadn’t heard from in years.
Leaving the still full can on top of the vending machine, Lero started down the corridor after the voice, calling back, but the response didn’t change.
Lero
Around corner after corner he followed the voice, down deserted halls and empty junctions. Eventually he came to a dimly lit corridor, the overhead lighting subdued, each of the doors that lead to private rooms on each side were closed, their observation windows dark. At the far end of the dead-end hallway, a single door was open, just a crack, a small sliver of light lancing out across the shadows.
He made his way closer down the corridor, the slow steady beep of machinery coming from that barely open door just up ahead. He reached the door, last on the left, as the voice came again. It was definitely coming from in there, he was sure of it. But whose room?
The wipe-board net to the door told him what he didn’t want to know, but had been starting to suspect for a while now. In big blue letters, the bold handwriting and large capital letters daring him to prove it wrong, it read: ‘Bellerophon Michaelides.”
Pushing the door, the hinges moving almost silently, he peered inside, finding a dimly lit hospital room, laid out just like so many of the others he’d seen this night. The overhead lights were out, leaving the room lit only by a small positionable lamp attached to the bedhead. What made this room different from the others, however, was what was in the bed, and next to it. This room was not unoccupied, no, far from it. After so many empty rooms, this one was occupied, and not just by one person, but by two.
At the side of the bed, a heart monitor beeped softly, the dull green of its screen pervading throughout the room, the occasional status light flickering at regular intervals. Wires trail from its side to the body lying immobile on the bed. He could see an arm, wrapped in bandages from wrist to bicep, a hospital gown covering the chest, a head of patchy hair up top. Orangey brown hair, stubbly in places, longer in others, obviously shaved for surgery at different points in time and just starting to grow back, different lengths denoting different trips to the surgical theatre.
But the face... the face was so familiar, even clean shaven and asleep. His own face - restful, peaceful, completely unresponsive and unaware.
Lero’s hand moved to his own face, rubbing against the short layer of growth across his chin. His fingers rasped against his jawline before moving to behind his left ear, finding the small patch of burnt tissue that had long since healed, leaving nothing but a patch of rough skin by his hairline.
Across the bed from him - slumped in a visitor's chair, upper body leaning forward onto the bed - sat a thin figure. Long dark hair spilled from a messy ponytail, leaving tendrils across her back, laying limp over the side of her neck and down past her throat. Head resting on a bare arm, the other arm reaching across the bed, fingers curled tight around the incumbent's hand, Lero couldn’t see her face. Even so, he didn't have to - he’d know this woman anywhere.
Taking a deep breath, Lero stepped into the room as quietly as he could, doing everything in his power not to wake the seemingly sleeping woman. He froze, mid-step, as a soft voice came from beneath the hair.
“I know you're here, Ronnie. I know you can hear me.”
He stepped forward, a hand outstretched towards her.
“I know you're still in there, fighting. But it’s getting harder, little brother. It’s getting harder to keep on...”
The woman sat up slowly, masses of unruly hair still covering her face. The hand not holding on to that of her prone sibling’s wiped at her eyes, pushing her fringe out of her face. She still had yet to notice the room’s most recent visitor.
“I don’t want to stop believing, Ronnie, but it’s so hard. Please, let us know you're coming back. Something? Anything?”
“I’m still here, Nausii.”
The woman turned her head to face him, pushing the last of the hair from her face as she took him in. What little make-up she wore had run, dark streaks of mascara drying onto her cheeks. She looked tired, worn, drained. She looked at him, seeing but not seeing, as if she’s looking straight through him.
“Where’s here, Ronnie? Where are you?”
“I... I don’t understand.” Lero stepped closer, his outstretched hands turned palm up, begging the question, “I don't know what you mean.”
“Where are you, Ronnie? Are you here,” she held up the comatose patient’s hand before letting it drop back onto the bed, “or are you here,” she waved vaguely in Lero’s direction, ”which is it, really?”
“What? I...”
Pushing away from the bed, she stood, turning, placing her hands on Lero’s cheeks. Her touch chilled him, her fingers were so cold. He reached for her, his hands coming to rest on her bare shoulders where he could feel her cold skin start to leech the heat from his palms. Even wearing just a dark green spaghetti top with thin blue jeans, she couldn't have been that cold... surely?
“Are you here, really here?” Her hands held him in place, her eyes searching his, studying him, looking for something. He could feel her gaze boring into him, making him squirm. “Or are you still stuck in your little fantasy world, with all your magical fucking adventures and your pretty, pretty little ponies. Are you coming back to us, or are you just going to hide in here,” her hands pressed harder against his cheeks, her touch no longer gentle, “slowly wasting away in this safe little fucking dreamworld you’ve made for yourself. Please, Ronnie, look at yourself.”
His jaw still in her grasp, she turned his head towards the bed, towards his unconscious doppleganger.
“You’re wasting away, slipping further and further from us every day. Please, don’t die on us, not like this, not all alone...”
Her voice broke as she released him, turning her back, looking away, a hand raised to cover her eyes.
“Not alone, not while we’re all here for you.”
Lero’s hands held her shoulders, her back still to him. She was still so cold, still pulling heat from his hands. He held her from behind, wrapping his arms around her, one across her collarbone, the other around her waist, his cheek against her ear. He held her close, hoping that at least some of his warmth would reach her.
“I don’t understand, “ he said, keeping his voice low, using the soothing tone that worked so well on his wives. ”It’s been years, I’ve a family now, two wonderful children. I’ve made a life for myself.”
She shrugged him off, a single step taking her out of his reach. She turned to face him, anger burning in her eyes.
“‘Made a life’? Ha,” she barked, “Fuck, no. What you’ve made is a fantasy. A fantasy leading nowhere but to a long, drawn out death. A death that’s already begun.”
Stepping back, curling her fingers into a fist, she slammed it into the wall beside her, the impact sending a long, jagged crack along the plaster. Even after the sound of the impact had faded, the crack continued to spread, creeping across the walls, becoming longer and longer until it spanned the entire room.
In places the crack widened dramatically, bright light flooded into the room through the gaps, bringing with it the sounds of happy music mixed with the noises of small town life interspersed with children playing.
The woman slammed her fist into the wall for a second time, then a third. Large, jagged pieces of the wall fall to the floor like shards of glass from a broken window. Through each of the holes streamed shafts of light of different colours and intensities, each gap revealing a view into a different scene of everyday life in Equestria.
One hole showed a bright summer day in Ponyville’s bustling market square, another showed early evening revelers on the city streets of Canterlot, yet another providing a view of the adventurers on the edge of the Everfree Forest under a night sky. Each of the other gaps holding a scene of their own, each revealing ponies going about their business totally unaware that they were being observed.
“Soon you’ll you have to make a choice, Ronnie”
Lero took a step back as his sister turned on him, stabbing a finger into his chest, poking him over and over as she made her point. She was angry at him... really angry. He’d never seen her this angry before. Not even when they were kids and he’d accidently dropped her prized Millennium Falcon model in the street and it’d been run over by a car.
“Where do you belong?”
He backed up, his legs hitting the bed, the comatose Lero within still giving no response as the bed rocked from the impact.
“Is it here, or is it there?”
The room began to fade out all around him, darkness overtaking his vision. Deceptively strong fingers grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer.
“One way or the other, you're going to have to make a choice.”
As the last of the light faded away, all he could see was a pair of eyes, catching whatever tiny slivers of light was left in the encroaching darkness.
”But will you be strong enough to make the right one?”
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the dream was over.
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#enemy4lyfe
Lero learned to never eat Spike's dragon fire hot nachos before bed.
According to science, the normal human being has fourteen areas of the tongue, each responsible for being receptive to different flavors. For example, there is one area receptive to cherry, and another to caramel. However, if one does not possess these areas, then Dr. Pepper will of course taste like a vile concoction due to the chemicals in the drink being unable to find purchase with their intended receptors.
(The above text does not express the views or beliefs of the person who wrote it)
i wonder, what if both sides are real?, what if the fae took only his mind/spirit and put it on a body that only needed his memories to replicate his shape and functions?, that would explain how the fae where able to undo any damage he would suffer by their games before he managed to escape, and at some time he has to choose on which side he has to stand
on another note i don't like lero sister
A disturbing dream, definitely, but it makes me curious about Nausicaä's point. Given a choice between my wives and kids, and my parents and siblings, it seems like the wives and kids would usually win out. Isn't a long drawn out death the way it always is anyway? They're both dream worlds, so the new family you are building should win. Of course, Nausicaä is asserting that Lero should choose reality over fantasy. It would presumably take strength of character to make the hard choice of gritty reality over lovely fantasy. However, it doesn't seem like she's making a strong argument for the importance of reality ("we're all here for you" but literally the only one here is her angry self; no indication of other unmet responsibilities), especially when she seems to acknowledge that she is aware of the extent of the fantasy and even brings it into accessible juxtaposition by breaking the walls. What "strength" is demonstrated by making the worse choice? Or, how is "reality" not the worse choice?
More relevant, I wonder where is this dream coming from? Is this just Lero's mind meditating on a guilty feeling? Is this some external actor (possibly the world itself) giving him foreshadowing of a tough choice he will be soon facing? Or is it some external actor who is trying to hurt Lero by making him confront uncomfortable scenarios?
Well... that was quite disturbing. But a few things didn't sit right with me in that dream, so I am led to believe some outside influence wants to hurt him, or potentially get rid of him from Equestria for a nefarious purpose. I don't like it.
Eeyup.
Called it.
Hospital.
Still, very well written as always there Whispers and a pleasure to read. Keep em coming mate.
But Is it too much to ask for something uplifting to read once in a while?
so is every chapter from now on going to be dark and depressing?
Whoa...
One of these worlds are fake and Lero has to choose the right one otherwise he'll either die or be back to being completely miserable.
I feel like I have seen this elsewhere before.
6362041 The myth of specific spots correlating to specific tastes was dispelled long ago.
6360791
Your avatar pic makes this comment. 
Huh. Well, there's a lovely bit of mind screw. Still, there's just too much that's both internally consistent and independent of Lero for Equestria to be a believable fantasy. Er, unbelievable fantasy. What I'm trying to say is that the world seems to exist beyond him. If anything, this seems like a snare set by the Fair Folk.
Spooky!
I swear, if the climax of this story, of the whole Leroverse is a cliché "it was all a coma induced dream"...
If you may have already said this but it feels like the Fair Folk are trying to find him enter using his subconscious to tell them where he is.
I really don't want it to be a coma.
Also Dr Pepper is amazing!
I am getting sick of the coma bs, this had better be a bait and switch. Cause that would be the lamest and cruelest end to a story I have ever scene.
Why does only one world have to be fake? Like any Doctor Who fan, I now have to consider the possibility that they both are!
