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// 51: Hospitals suck 
// Story: One Way 
// by jroddie 
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Chapter 51

I nearly jumped out of the bed when the doctor called me by my real name. I didn’t get far because a horrible pain opened up in my chest when I did. The doctor actually jumped up out of his chair and put his hands on my shoulders, pushing me back onto the bed gently.
“You shouldn’t get startled like that, you could tear out your staples. Good luck surviving that.” He said, making sure I was properly lying down. I stared up at him with wide eyes. He leaned over me and tugged on a string that turned on the light above me. I squinted my eyes as I adjusted to the light. I blinked for a little bit and looked back at the doctor. He had unusually small round glasses. His eyes were a dull brown, but his hair was almost completely black. I looked a little bit harder. He didn’t have any scars, no blemishes or anything like that. Other than a little stubble, he was perfect.
“I don’t believe you.” I said, setting my jaw. The doctor shrugged.
“I don’t blame you. I could be just some crazy doctor. But let me tell you, Edwin, I’m not.” He used my real name again, making my doubts come to the surface. I stared up at him.
“I don’t know that.”
“Yes, you do!” He almost shouted. His eyes were bright for a moment, but then he backed away from my bed and exhaled heavily. 
“Look. I know how I can prove it to you, but I can’t bring the things I need to the hospital. You need to stay here for a few more weeks, but after that, I can take you to my house. I promise I’m not wasting your time.” He said. I frowned.
“Let’s say you’re not wasting my time. Let’s say you really are Othello.”
“I really am Othello,” He said, pulling out his wallet. He took out a card and handed it to me. It was a drivers license with the man’s face on it, and the name read “Williams, Othello Dean.” I looked up at him. 
“Yeah, but you might not be my Othello. Look, you know my name, that’s something. But I don’t really know if all of your years of being human have turned you into something that won’t recognize everypony back home. You could just be some... some...”
“Abomination? Bastardization?” Othello said, his visage growing grim. I gulped.
“I didn’t mean it that way, I was just-”
“I’ve had the same thoughts going through my head for the last forty years. I was trapped in a child’s body when I came back to life. I had to see therapists of all kinds because my parents thought I was crazy. I knew I wasn’t crazy. I knew that I was really something else. But, eventually, I managed to see ‘sense’. I repressed my past life as hallucinations and imaginative daydreams. But then you came along. All of it came streaming back. Equestria, ponies, 
everything. I am Othello. More than I ever was. I can actually face life again, knowing that I’m not crazy, that my love for Celestia isn’t just a chemical imbalance in my brain but actual love.” Othello said, laughing freely while rubbing his head with his other hand. “I feel so alive! I can do anything now!” He said, giddy as a medical professional could be. I smiled.
“So were you just lucky to be named Othello, or what?” I asked. He smiled.
“No, I changed my name when I was old enough to do it legally. I didn’t like my original name anyways, but Othello just kind of caught me as a good name.”
“What was your name to begin with?”
“Winston. I wanted to be a doctor, not a butler.” He quipped. I smiled and the conversation lulled. We just sat there, relishing the moment that we weren’t alone in the world. I looked out of the window. The bright moonlight made the outside of the hospital eerily visible.  
“So what now?” I finally asked. Othello sighed. He got up out of his chair and stretched. I watched him do this, but then he pointed a finger at me.
“You need to sleep. There’s a whole lot of nothing that we have to do tomorrow. I’ll try and see if I can bring something by that you might like.” He groaned out. He snatched his license off of my lap and walked jauntily out of the door. I heard it shut quietly, and then closed my eyes to dreams of death. 

Morning came early. Hellaciously early. I squinted my eyes as the sun peeked over the horizon and into my room. I turned my head away from the bright light and to the whiteboard. Someone had the good manners to change it while I was sleeping.

Jamal King
Wednesday, May 6th, 1992
Los Angeles, California
Muggy

Well, there was that at least. The day changed. The city stayed the same. I’m still Jamal King. Life goes on. I sighed and looked at the dark TV mounted to the ceiling. I didn’t want to turn it on. There was so much to human life that I really didn’t want back. I turned away from the TV and back to the window. The big ball of fire that just recently graced my morning with his incendiary presence was creeping up my window slowly, like it was using the blinds as a ladder. Being in the hospital was boring. I watched the sun come up slowly and waited for something to interrupt. 

“Good morning Mr. King.” A tired voice declared. I looked away from the sun to see a nurse coming up to my bedside. I watched her come up to my machines, writing things down on a little clipboard. She was a tiny person, with dirty blonde hair and pale skin. She wore a long-sleeved grey undershirt under plain maroon scrubs. She had a gaunt look on her face, like she had stayed up all night. She also wore a tiny crucifix hanging from a delicate chain over her scrubs. She looked at one of my monitors and wrote something on her clipboard.
“Are you a religious woman?” I said. My voice was insanely hoarse for some reason, so 
I sounded like batman gargling marbles. She looked away from the monitors. Her mouth was hanging open a little bit.
“Y-yes, I am.” She stuttered, like she was afraid of me. I smiled softly.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I can’t do much of anything with this.” I rasped, gesturing to my chest. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind one of her ears.
“Someone is going to be over in a few to switch out those bandages, by the way.” She added. I smiled some more. She turned back to my monitors, writing some more. There was a long pause, and the sun climbed a few more blinds into the sky. 
“I died.” I blurted out. She turned to me 
“Excuse me?”
“I died on that operating table.” I explained. The nurse swallowed for a second, turning back to one of the machines.	
“This says you’re doing pretty well.” She laughed, tapping one of the monitors with a pen. I closed my eyes and breathed for a while.
“They say I had a heart attack in the street.”
“A pretty big one, too. I’m surprised they didn’t just wheel you into the morgue.”
“But I don’t remember having a heart attack. I don’t remember coming to the hospital. For Celestia’s sake, they had to tell me my own name! I died. And I woke up in this.” I exhorted, flopping my arms at my black body. The nurse opened her mouth like she was about to say something, but then gulped and walked out of my room. She opened the door and then squeaked.
“Oh, Dr. Williams, I was just about to come get you, Mr. King, he was-” She was saying very hushed, but then Dr. Williams interrupted.
“Angie, I know.” Othello said. I was shocked a little to recognize his voice.
“Y-you do?” She asked, sounding extremely relieved.
“Yes. I can tell about it later, but I have to check on Mister King right now.” He explained, sounding a little preoccupied.
“O-Okay.” She sighed. I could hear the clacking of Dr. Williams’ shoes as he was walking in. He had a big, thin leather briefcase about four feet tall that was tucked under his armpit. It was even wider than it was tall. He set it down next to his favorite chair and fell down into the chair. He groaned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. I did a double take between him and the briefcase.
“God, Edwin. What did you say to her?”
“I told her the truth.” I nearly whispered. Othello stopped rubbing his eyes suddenly. He hesitated before he looked up at me.
“What?” He asked. I shifted in my gurney so I could see him better.
“What if we did die? What if Winston actually drowned on the side of that pool? What if Jamal actually died in surgery? We could be inhabiting their bodies because the humans didn’t need them anymore.”
“So what happened to the humans?” Othello asked, suddenly engaged.
“Every single religion on earth wants to tell you.”
“You don’t think they went to Equestria?” 
“No.” I whispered, shaking my head.
“Well, Mister Shell, I just have one question for you before I show you my little surprise.” He added, patting his thin black briefcase next to him. 
“What’s that?”
“A surprise.”
“No, the question.” I qualified. Othello looked out the window for a moment before turning back to me.
“So if the humans didn’t go to Equestria when they died, What makes us different?”
“What?”
“What makes us different? You, me, Evangeline. Any of them.  Why do we go to Equestria while the rest of them get to die or go to heaven or get broiled alive in hell or whatever it is that happens to them.”
“Maybe I’ve done something perversely horrifying in my past life. Or my past, past life.” I remarked. Othello grinned.
“You think that you’ve performed some kind of offense against god or nature or whatever it is.”
“Yes.”
“Well, maybe you ate babies in your past past life, but I lead an honest life. Or, at least I tried to.
“What were you in your first life, anyways?”
“An Italian general, to be honest.”
“Really? That’s cool. Oh, say something Italian!”
“Penso che sia tempo di prendere la pressione sanguigna.” He nearly laughed out, getting up from his chair. He walked over to some of my machines and pulled a blood pressure cuff off of the wall. He started to squeeze it when it was on my arm. He sighed.
“Quel bastardo Iago.” He muttered as he squeezed the cuff. I looked up at him as he was squeezing. He looked sad. 
“Are you okay?” I asked tentatively. He nodded.
“Memories, is all. è né qui né lì, as they say.” He said, ripping the cuff off of my arm. He glanced at his watch. “One ten over ninety. At least you aren’t going to explode like before.” He joked, placing the cuff back in its little bucket. He walked around my bed to his suitcase.
“So what’s in the thing?” I ventured. He looked over his shoulder at me.
“You mean my portfolio?” He asked, unzipping the thing. I clambered up on my elbows to get a better look. He pulled out a canvas that was slightly smaller than the briefcase, but would still be an enormous painting. He kept it facing away from me while he sat down in his regular chair. He had it set down in front of his knees, resting on his shoes.
“Sorry about the philosophy. I lost a patient today.”
“I’m so sorry.” I whispered again, not because I was saddened but because I was hoarse.
“She was very, very young. Especially compared to you and I. Especially compared to me. She was only nineteen. She was absolutely gorgeous, too. She could have been a model or a celebrity or something like that. She was a looker. And she died, bloodied in my arms. She shouldn’t have died.”
“What happened to her?”
“She broke a rib. Nothing serious, really. Her boyfriend said that she fell out of a chair. I believe him, too. She didn’t have any bruises that would make me think that he was abusive. Well, we patched her up pretty well and she was about to get her purse and go when she stumbled. She, uh...” Othello paused for a moment, making my wandering eyes turn back to him. His face was red and his mouth was trembling. I could see tears in his eyes. He pushed his glasses out of his eyes and wiped away the tears with his big hands. He set the hands down on his lap, balled into fists. “I was going to help her, I had a hand on her arm to steady her. She stood up, but she was wheezing now. Her eyes were glazed over a bit. She opened her mouth to speak and just coughed blood into my face. I-I couldn’t do anything about it. I tried to re-set the rib but it wouldn’t work. I had to just stand there, trying to breathe life into this girl. I couldn’t do anything. She struggled, too. She knew what was happening. I could see the crippling fear in her eyes, knowing that it was the end. It wouldn’t have been so bad, except... The last words out of her mouth were ‘I hope I have enough for the copay.’ That really got me. It was just so sudden.”
“How did she die?” I was almost afraid to ask. Othello nearly burst into tears.
“Sh-She had a rib that I didn’t know was broken. It punctured one of her lungs, and she aspirated blood. She drowned, plain and simple.” He stuttered out. I looked down at my feet.
“Where do you think she went?”
“I hope she went someplace as beautiful as she was.” He whispered. He covered his face with one of his hands. “I’m sorry.” He rasped out. He stayed like that for a moment. I looked away to give him some privacy. He coughed a while later and I turned back to him. He was holding his canvas upright, with the back of it facing towards me. “Take a look.” He said, flipping the painting around. I gasped.
“Oh my God.” I admired. Othello smiled.
“Every time I see this, I have hope. I might get to see her again, against all odds.”
“It’s amazing.” I said. The painting was meticulously beautiful. It was as if countless days and hours were poured into this painting. Every single stroke was a labor of love, making Michelangelo look like a purple elephant on the fridge. 
“She’s beautiful.” I said. The painting was an acrylic of Princess Celestia, eyes closed with a flower stem sticking out of her mouth. She was sitting in the middle of a field of dandelions while the evening sun was frozen in the sky, barely touching the horizon. I knew at that moment that Dr. Williams was the First Numbered.