Waddling Through The Wetlands – Chapter Eight

Hello readers! Sorry it’s been awhile, but I think I finally have a routine in order. I need to be more disciplined with my writing, and I have a plan outlined in order to do so. Luckily for you, that includes blogging.

Back to Helen’s ass.

I open my eyes and see a woman in a nurse’s uniform but one that’s a different color from all the others here. The others all wear light blue and she’s in light green. Maybe she had a laundry mishap.

If you remember, when we last left Helen she had her eyes clamped shut in pain. I love how even through that, she can still make inner monologue quips that make me laugh.

The woman apologizes for disturbing her so late and tells Helen that she’s a candy striper. Helen thinks that the woman is crazy, and reflects on her pain.

That would be a great conversation: “I’m a candy striper.” “Yeah, and my ass hurts.”

The candy striper tells Helen that she’s a volunteer that tries to make the patients more comfortable. Helen asks her to get painkillers, but the woman says she’s not authorized.

“Please leave me alone. I’m sorry, but I’m in pain and I’m waiting for a nurse and some medication. Normally I’m nicer.”

It’s little things like this that really flesh out a character in a story. Helen’s in a ridiculous amount of pain, and doesn’t want to take it out on this innocent volunteer, so she asks her to leave. But she also doesn’t want the woman to think she’s a bad person, so she thinks to add that in her normal state she’s nice. Helen wants everyone to like her. All of that can be gleaned from this one little sentence. Aka: good writing.

I’m not going to be able to keep it together much longer. I take deep breaths. And blow them back out loudly. My hand wanders down to my pubic mound and I pull my knees up toward my chest. Although this position hurts, I stay in it. Into the pain with you, Helen.

The narrative doesn’t actually say that the candy striper has left, but it doesn’t give any inclination that she’s still there, either. So I guess she’s gone, but one has to wonder if she’s standing in the doorway watching Helen cradle her vagina for comfort.

The other hand I put over my ass crack. This is bad. The kind of pain that makes you feel extremely lonely and scared. I think to myself, no patient should have to be in pain in a country as rich as this; I think, there’s enough medicine for everyone here.

So true. Unfortunately, no matter how rich a country (or a person) is, they always want to be richer. So they don’t just give shit away willy-nilly.

I ring the buzzer. Peter comes running in. He apologizes that it’s taken so long. He couldn’t reach the doctor at first. He found out that the day shift had made a mistake. I was supposed to get an electronic device so I could self-administer pain medication. […] They forgot. Forgot? I’m at their mercy. Forgot.

Helen is pissed, and I would be too. I know it must be crazy working in a hospital, but jesus people, medication mistakes can kill people. Get your shit together.

Peter tells her she can have strong pills all night as much as she wants, and gives her one.

I pop it into my mouth and wash it down with the dregs of the beer. Peter clears away the pizza box. He’s probably forgotten he’s responsible for the medical waste. Hospital of the forgetful. My painkillers forgotten, my rectal goulash forgotten.

Why with the goulash? Stop ruining food!

I’m pretty imaginative, but I don’t see ass in this. Thank god.

We’ll see what else gets forgotten. The half-eaten mushroom pizza sits on top covering everything. My goulash ends up in the normal trash. I like that. I don’t say anything. He also throws out the beer bottles, very carefully so they don’t bang against each other. Very delicate, Peter.

Helen notices the weirdest things. And why does she like that her infected ass chunks ended up in the regular garbage? Some poor homeless person might be rummaging for pizza the next night and end up with a mouthful of Helen’s ass pus. Seriously.

Hey kids! Guess what kind of pizza I found today?

Helen falls asleep and wakes up close to three in the morning. She turns the light on and notices another pill on her nightstand. She swallows it dry and tries to go back to sleep, but she has to pee.

My bladder’s full. Very full. At least it’s my bladder bothering me and not my ass. There’s a noise bothering me. It’s a loud hissing. From outside, I think. Sounds like the exhaust pipe of the hospital’s air-conditioning system. They must have moved it right outside my window while I was asleep.

Those must be some good painkillers. Does she honestly think that the hospital moved an entire air conditioning system outside of her window?

I refuse to go to the bathroom. You’re going to have to fall asleep with a full bladder, Helen, or not at all. To block out the hiss I put the pillow on top of my head. Top ear blocked by the pillow, bottom ear by the mattress.

The hiss in my head is now as loud as the air conditioner outside. I press my eyelids together and try to force myself to sleep. Think about something else, Helen. But what?

I smell something.

Ass juice?

I fear it’s gas. I sniff and sniff again. It still smells like gas. A gas leak. I can almost hear it. Sssssssss. Just to be sure not to make a fool of myself, I wait a little longer. I hold my breath. I could a few seconds and then take another deep breath. It’s definitely gas. Turn on the light. I stand up. The motion hurts. But who cares. Better to have your ass hurt than to get blown sky high.

Helen calls down the hallway a few times and a female nurse shows up. She asks the nurse to come check her room because it smells like gas.

We go into my room and sniff around. I can’t smell it anymore. The strong gas smell. It’s gone. No gas, no nothing. It’s happened again.

Helen tries to appear as if she was joking with the nurse.

I don’t pull it off very well. I can’t believe I’ve fooled myself again. For the hundredth time. Approximately.

It appears Helen has a recurring fear of gas leaks to the point where she hallucinates them. I wonder why? *cough*Mrs.Memel*cough*

Helen reflects on the worst time she had an incident like this.

I lay in bed a long time with my eyes nearly closed – because of lack of oxygen, I thought, though it turned out to be from sleepiness – thinking about what I should do.

I thought if I got out of bed I might cause a spark and it would be my fault if the apartment blew up and I died.

She thinks that the other rooms where her mother and brother were had already filled up with gas and they were already dead. What a horrible thing to have to go through! Obviously it’s all in her head, but could you imagine the crippling fear this must have induced?

I decided to climb out of bed very slowly and inch my way outside on the floor.

The apartment was silent. If I made it out alive I would still have my father, who, luckily, didn’t live in that deadly building. That’s the one advantage to having divorced parents.

Always look on the bright side of life, I guess.

I walked away from the building so I wouldn’t be hit by any flying bricks if the place blew up.

This is some seriously fucked up shit. Helen’s subconscious can literally fool her into thinking all of this. Why are her parents not paying attention to the damage in this girl’s brain?

There was a light on in the living room. I could see mom on the couch with a book in her hand. At first I thought she had suffocated and was frozen in that position. Rather improbable.

Then she turned a page. She was alive, and I realized I had fooled myself again.

There’s no way for me to know whether I’m imagining it or not when I smell gas. It always smells strong. And it happens pretty often.

It’s actually a pleasant smell.

Fear makes you tired. Painkillers, too. I lie down in the hospital bed and fall asleep.

Poor Helen. :(

So, this was a quick and relatively painless chapter, and we got to see even more of how she is affected by her mother’s horrible actions. Until next time, which will be tomorrow, because I have a post all planned out for your reading pleasure! Don’t worry, it’s not about anal goulash.

Anal Goulash would be a killer band name.

Beiber sounds like Helen’s ass looks.

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