Difference between revisions of "Log:Joie de Vivre"

6 May, 2018

Where Cerise went after seeking the Hera Pear in the Hedge. Part 1 of 3. ( - Part 2 - Part 3 - )

Obliviscence General Hospital

The dark water feels cool and sweet against your skin, especially after the slippery stones cut you badly and your blood starts to spill out and billow around you; to fill the river up with liquid clouds the color of your name. You squint to see past the blood. The pear is still shining before you. You have to swim and stretch /just/ a little to reach it...

The feeling of triumph when your fingers close around it is better than any high you've ever had in your life. Better than acing a test. Better than saving a life. Better than falling in love. It's so strong that for a moment you don't see anything else. Just those few angles of gold shining bright through your fingers.

'Congratulations,' comes that soft, soft susurrus at the back of your mind. It sounds just like you-- Except that the 'S'es drag out just a little bit too long, like the slow-warning hiss of a snake.

When you can see again, you're in a hospital break room. One that you know well. You work here, after all; you come here every day and eat your snack right here, at this white plastic table, sitting on a chair with one leg just a little bit too short that you've complained about but that they're never going to bother to replace. The walls are plastered with safety posters and memos. The enormous, industrial-strength stainless steel fridge shines at you from across the room. Dimly, you catch your reflection in it. Dark hair pinned back, white lab coat on, wearing a tired but satisfied expression. Surrounded by the indistinct, murmuring shapes of your colleagues.

Eating a pale gold pear...

Catching sight of her appearance, Cerise pauses to look at herself closer in the mirror. She leans in, pressing a finger to one side of a tired eye, stretching out the skin there before rocking back on her heels and giving a shrug. She lifts the pear to her lips and takes a bite as she heads over to the table and sits in the chair and ... wobbles.

"Damn it." The woman mutters under her breath. The pear's set back down as she reaches for napkin and folding it neatly stands, only to crouch down by the chair again and wedge the folded napkin underneath.

Tired, sure, but the satisfaction stands out, doesn't it? You've done a damn fine thing...whatever it was. The napkin, at least, seems to provide a satisfactory solution. Though how long can it last?

One of the porters in the break room sees you stabilize the chair. "Yes," he says. "That one always wobbles." A tall, gangly-looking fellow with short black hair and grey, almost colorless eyes. Name tag not quite visible from here. He brings another chair over and swaps it out with the one you were sitting on, picking up the folded napkin, too. "There."

Before you can thank him, he carries the bad chair out of the break room. Presumably, back to Supply.

Cerise gives the chair a test. It doesn't wobble. She smiles to herself, popping back up to her feet. Before she can sit though, the chair is changed out for another. "Hey! Thanks!" She calls out to the man's back before plopping down into the new chair with a sigh of satisfaction. She stares at one of those posters for a moment, before picking up the pear with one hand. While she takes a bite, the other hand snakes around behind her head, as she relaxes back, tired, happy, and making the most of what remains of her break time.

John usually takes his break around the same time that you do. But you don't see him in here right now, though you look around the room at the other doctors, nurses, and orderlies. There's not much conversation going on. For the most part, people look tired.

You feel energized, though. You're looking forward to seeing John again and to continuing your current research. You've been searching for a simpler, more convenient way to get the effects of hyperbaric oxygen therapy. He's been helping, though he has his own projects as well.

Cerise only spends a few moments looking at the other people in the break room, although if she recognizes anyone off the bat, she'll give them a wave and a bright smile in between her own snack. Mostly, her eyes keep drifting to the door, waiting for John to emerge. When he doesn't come right away, she pops up and heads over to the fridge, checking inside to see if his lunch bag is still in there. She might have missed him, after all.

His lunch bag is still there. But it hasn't been touched. Which is a bit strange... He normally eats by this time. Maybe something happened? Or maybe he's just extra absorbed by his current project and hasn't noticed the time passing. You don't have a lot of time before you need to get back to your own research but you could check in and remind him.

Cerise knows where his office is, right? Surely, she knows where he works. She's always known where to find him even before they moved in together. She lets the fridge door close again and takes another bite of her pear as she heads for the door back out into the hallway, snacking as she maneuvers towards where she thinks John should be.

It's imperative to hold onto that pear, for some reason. That's what you came all that way to get, after all. Or did you come all this way to find John? Speaking of which, his office isn't far from the break room. You move down the hall, smiling and waving to various colleagues as you go, then knock on the door. No answer immediately...but you think you hear some sounds in there. The muffled sound of his voice, followed by a crazed peal of laughter that /sounds/ like his, but -- you've never heard him laugh like that in your life.

And is there someone crying in there, to boot? A woman?

Cerise pauses. She should leave, probably. Let him have his peace with that crying woman. She can find out more tonight at home, but there's that laugh. That laugh is odd. It can't be John's, there has to be someone else in there and maybe he needs back up? Cerise settles on this, and after another knock on the door, and a shifting of the pear to the off hand, she reaches for the handle to the office.

You're just about to push the handle down and open the door when someone covers your eyes from behind. "What a pleasant surprise," says a warm, familiar voice. "To what do I owe the honor?" The hands over your eyes feel strong; the skin smooth. You recognize the scent of John's cologne at your back. A light, fresh scent.

But if he's out here with you... Who's in there?

"I had a good morning. I deserve a break." Cerise breaks into a smile again. She lifts the hand not holding the pear to move John's hands away from her eyes, "Where have you been? I didn't see you over at the break room." She asks as she spins around to face him.

"Oh, I was helping one of the orderlies. He detained me in the hall with a few questions." John moves his hands away from your eyes, laughing. His eyes are blue and bright and intelligent. Then he suddenly takes her by the hand, grinning. He's got great teeth. So well taken care of. It's important to take care of one's health, isn't it? That includes dental health.

"Come with me. There's something I want to show you."

"Sure. But, John, I think there are some people in your office." Cerise's hand shifts into John's easily and comfortably, the way that one does when you've been together forever, and holding hands is second nature. But before she goes with him, she pulls him back and juts a chin towards the office door, looking just slightly worried. "You might want to check on them?"

"Anything you want," John answers easily, with the same toothpaste commercial white smile. He returns the pressure of your hand and reaches past you to push the door open. When he does, there's no one inside at all, although you can still hear that strange peal of laughter. John's voice... But not John's laughter. At the same time, you can tell perfectly well that he isn't laughing. Not at you, and not at any other woman crying in his office, either.

Hmm. Those hardworking nurses aren't laughing -- or crying -- at all. In fact, they're all diligently working. Some of their uniforms seem kind of old-fashioned looking, the kind with a little too much starch. But that's probably normal.

John, in the meantime, is happy to drag you back down the hall. "It's amazing," he says, smiling ear to ear without showing his teeth. "The kind of trouble those nurses get up to."

Cerise is still flush with embarrassment and happy to let John take the lead now, although that statement causes her to roll her eyes as they walk, "They don't get in trouble, John. They have hard jobs and like to blow off steam now and again. As long as they're not neglecting patients, who are we to judge?"

He's giving the room a thoughtful once-over like he completely expected to find whatever it was that you heard inside. He even walks inside with you to look around and double check. When there's no further evidence of anything out of the ordinary going on, John turns to look at you, apparently waiting for your reaction. Not inclined to say anything to discredit your earlier statement.

"I must have misheard. The voices must have been coming from the Nurses' station." That's right, Cerise, just throw those hardworking nurses under the bus! There's another tug on John's hand, willing him out of the office lest they dwell on her foolishness too long. When they're back out in the hall, though, she does peer across the way at the nurses, as if expecting to see the source of the laughter coming from there.

Hmm. Those hardworking nurses aren't laughing -- or crying -- at all. In fact, they're all diligently working. Some of their uniforms seem kind of old-fashioned looking, the kind with a little too much starch. But that's probably normal.

John, in the meantime, is happy to drag you back down the hall. "It's amazing," he says, smiling ear to ear without showing his teeth. "The kind of trouble those nurses get up to."

Cerise is still flushed with embarrassment and happy to let John take the lead now, although that statement causes her to roll her eyes as they walk, "They don't get into trouble, John. They have hard jobs and like to blow off steam now and again. As long as they're not neglecting patients, who are we to judge?"

"You're absolutely right, Cerise," says John. "I couldn't agree with you more." The walls passing by are painted in intentionally soothing tones, almost like a spa: gentle seafoams and teals; pale blues and beiges and greens. Sea glass colors. He's still grinning as he leads you down the hallways. It's weird, given how long you've been working here, but after you turn the next corner there's a split second where you don't know which doors come next or what part of the hospital you're in.

But only for a split second. Then your memory comes back. Maybe it was something you ate?

"You're agreeing with me?" Cerise sounds surprised, and then skeptical, then pleased. She won that fight, really? And it wasn't even a fight? Again there's a hint of a smile and a satisfied bite of pear. That moment of pleasure fades into that second of confusion, and never quite manages to recover. Cerise changes her steps so that she gives John's side a fond little bump, "So, what is it you wanted to show me? You haven't said yet."

John bumps your shoulder right back. Maybe he's in a more playful mood than usual today? But then again... Why do you think that he isn't usually in a playful mood? He sure is smiling brightly at you. "Why wouldn't I agree with you?" he says. "You're right. And your idea for the project has been brilliant. I want you to see the patient." You recognize now that he's leading you toward one of the observation levels where you can see a patient without being in the room with them.

"Well, usually, it takes you a good five minutes to recognize my brilliance." Cerise's reply is light, purposefully so, although, with John's hand in one of hers and the pear in another and all of this morning's progress in the back of her mind, it's hard to stay in a bad mood for long. She perks up as they enter the observation area, her own innate curiosity taking over. "It was? You tried it? There's been good progress then?" She peers down at the patient as she simultaneously pulls away from John to slide in front of the nearest hospital computer so that she can pull up files.

The files that come up describe a patient that you don't remember seeing before. 24 year old white male; hair: brown; eyes: blue; height: 5'11"; weight: 140 pounds. You're pretty sure that's not your patient. But at the same time, as you look at the picture on his file, there's something familiar about his face. Something fiercely stubborn yet vulnerable about the eyes...

The header on the file reads simply: P.I.T. Experiment #3412. What does "P.I.T." stand for, though? Have you heard that term before? And when you skim the description of the patient's therapies, nothing about them sounds particularly therapeutic. The phrase 'unprocessed negative emotions' keeps jumping out of the text. So does the word 'trapped'...

Cerise frowns as she reads through the files. That isn't that unusual. The woman often frowns when she's processing information. She scrolls through one page after another of therapies, and then, looking completely lost, her eyes peer back up at John, and she scoots back a bit from the computer to make room for him, "I'm missing it, John. Where's the information on the treatment?"

So many patients. Not all of them are P.I.T. experiments. Some of the experiments have other names, including a trio of male names: Edmund, Iago, Aaron.

But John doesn't answer you -- he's fiddling with some dials and levers, humming to himself. Does he even hear you? He finally puts the lights up on the observation area before you, revealing a scene, that...

Once seen, cannot be unseen.

It's lit by garish fluorescent lights. Not the bright, clean, modern lights of the hospital, but something sickly. Older-looking. There is a young man strapped into a complex apparatus, hanging upside down. He, too, seems vaguely familiar, though you're not sure why. His longish dark hair spills down towards the ground, which is wet with blood. Wait. Is it blood? It's too black to be blood...

But whatever this liquid is, it seems to be coming out of thousands of tiny cuts, all over his skin. Tiny razor blades are making precise, robotic incisions -- sometimes together, sometimes separately. Every time they do, the man's body twitches. But he can't scream, because there seems to be something in his mouth. A suction? A hose. It's hard to see from here...

Cerise's eyes go wide at the sight in the other room. She would scream but her voice catches inside her throat, letting out only the smallest of cries, strangled before it reaches the air. In lieu of sound, Cerise reaches out for John's arm, catching it and squeezing it tight. She stares, appalled, for several seconds, her grip on John's arm getting ever tighter until she's finally able to speak, "/John/, what is going on? We need to stop that." And with her wits finally caught up with her, that's when she releases his arm and dives for the door separating the two rooms.

"But it was your idea," John says. Still smiling just as broadly as before. Almost inhumanly broadly; like there's a diamond-tipped saw behind his lips. You don't stop to think about what he could mean. /Your/ idea? How could you ever think of anything like that? Why would you want to?

There's no way...

You fling the door open and it bangs into the incongruously anodyne color of the wall inside. Paint the pale, speckled blue of a raven's egg. The man in the chair lifts his head and stares directly at you. The same black liquid that's coming out of the tiny incisions in his skin is leaking out of his sharp hazel eyes, too. Though he doesn't appear to be crying. His true tears still reserved, kept private; held back somewhere deep inside.

At the same time...

It has the ring of truth. Or at least: You feel like you've been here before. /Was/ this your idea? Is there any way that what's going on could be /helping/ this man? You can't think of any other reason why you would ever have invented such a thing.

"No." Cerise repeats lowly. Her head gives a shake as she looks over at the man in the chair. Her face is so pale now, deathly so. "This wasn't what I meant. You misunderstood." It's how she makes sense of it all. A few more steps take her to the man being experimented on, her brow pulled together worried, "Did you consent to this? Do you want it to continue? It doesn't have to."

The man looks at you but doesn't answer. Maybe he can't. There is that hose over his mouth, after all. You keep walking closer to him. Something about that liquid... You feel like you've seen it before. In fact, it was in the break room. There was a spill that looked just like that that someone had been mopping up...

"Don't you remember, Cerise?" asks John. He's standing behind you again. How did he get in here? You never saw him walk away from the computer. "It was your idea to use oxygen in this form to treat his wounds... It's been working incredibly well."

When you look back at the man, there are no cuts in his skin. No blades anywhere; just IVs. He's just hooked up to that hose, which shows completely clear, as you would expect. So are the IV tubes. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the hiss of pressurized air.

"Right." It's almost a whisper when Cerise agrees, her brown eyes blinking down at the man hooked up to the machinery. Again, she seems to have been caught acting on something that wasn't there. She lifts a hand to run through her hair, twisting to look behind her, around the room, and then finally back at the man, blinking in confusion. Finally, she offers weakly, "I just thought you had it hooked up wrong. I'm sorry, John. I shouldn't have gotten so worked up."

There's a pain in your eyes. Almost like it's the height of ragweed season. You try to blink it away but it's the funniest thing: when your eyes are closed, however briefly, you see it all again. The black liquid; the incessant slicing of the machine. John, acting like this were all a great secret the two of you were in on together, like a private joke or a club with a password that changes every night.

But... No...

The pear in your hand feels hot. "Worked up?" asks John. "What do you mean, Cerise? You've been cool as a cucumber." He frowns a little and puts the back of his hand up to your forehead. "You don't /feel/ warm..."

Cerise's eyes drift down to the pear, as if she'd forgotten for a moment that she's still holding it, and then back up at John, her head shaking ruefully, "Still, I think I'm going to head home for the rest of the day. I have a bit of a headache, and I'm tired and obviously this is going well." Her lips part in a brief smile, meant to be convincing before she pulls away again. "I'll see you there?"

John smiles back at you. All light; all warmth. Like the sun off the harbor in summer. "You'll see me before you can miss me, my love."