Sinister Swede
03-29-2011, 12:13 PM
This is how you SHOULDN'T write a short story. I won't erase it, since I'd like to access it for development purposes.
Poofy pillows with creative and pretty texture were to emphasize some imaginary comfort in here. Lund Medical Centre was dull, though. Drab and featureless, plain white. With his squints and endeavours to create a sane image of what's behind the blur he saw, Hanlon roughly managed to create an all white view. That, was one thing to please him, the lightness in the colour white. His diabetic features had never seemed to establish any negativity, and at this stage, the diagnosis of Hanlons foggy vision had not shown any relationship to diabetes.
The last light left the lobby when doctors and interns left the hospital, after another tough, boring day. Hanlons neighbour, the woman that had blabbered on about death, how she expects it to be, was possibly one of the last to fall asleep. A garrulous woman, that prevented Hanlon from sleeping, kept chatting no matter the time. Although, that was fortunate, considering Hanlons desires.
“Why do you keep the night-light on, dear?” She mumbled, with a dark pitch and a choppy voice. Her weariness was expressed, and it seemed as if her cancer finally seemed to become indisputable and and obvious. Then she closed her eyes and turned over, exposing her back to Hanlon. As if it was his turn to talk, and hers to listen.
“Feels safer... When it's not as, um... Pitch black.” It wasn't really that it felt safer. It wasn't at all. The real problem was the unacquainted hiding in the dark, what you can't really see. He knew he'd be completely blind without some light, and that was what troubled him about the dark, losing the ability of visual perception.
When Hanlon at last fell asleep the remaining staff pulled the night-light switch, and the lobby room went pitch black.
In the morning, the sunlight rays peeked through the blinds. The sound of a rasp against the wooden floor was distinctive. Someone had pulled out a chair next to Hanlons bed.
“You're suffering from the disease Diabetic Retinopathy. It is, of course, caused by the diabetes you're suffering from. The blood vessels or tubes in the back of your eye have broken and blood is flooding into and damaging the parts of your eyes that will help you see. Surgery or medicine are your options, surgery being the best, since the case is urgent.”
Inconceivably he found himself at home. In a narrow apartment, there were lamps with colossal light bulbs and the apartment seemed encased with electricity. Then, poof...
Every bulb shrinks like shrivelled plants. The barrier of encasement brakes and blackness touches the doormat. He heeds the words 'will eventually initiate blindness'.
Hanlon panicked, blinked desperately in a hopeless attempt to discover the smallest spring of light. No, it wasn't working. He panicked. Kept blinking. Sweating, something rose a blockade shutting his throat in the dark. It kept every sound shut inside his lungs, kept his breath furthest away from the exit holes, and made him only express squeaks.
Poofy pillows with creative and pretty texture were to emphasize some imaginary comfort in here. Lund Medical Centre was dull, though. Drab and featureless, plain white. With his squints and endeavours to create a sane image of what's behind the blur he saw, Hanlon roughly managed to create an all white view. That, was one thing to please him, the lightness in the colour white. His diabetic features had never seemed to establish any negativity, and at this stage, the diagnosis of Hanlons foggy vision had not shown any relationship to diabetes.
The last light left the lobby when doctors and interns left the hospital, after another tough, boring day. Hanlons neighbour, the woman that had blabbered on about death, how she expects it to be, was possibly one of the last to fall asleep. A garrulous woman, that prevented Hanlon from sleeping, kept chatting no matter the time. Although, that was fortunate, considering Hanlons desires.
“Why do you keep the night-light on, dear?” She mumbled, with a dark pitch and a choppy voice. Her weariness was expressed, and it seemed as if her cancer finally seemed to become indisputable and and obvious. Then she closed her eyes and turned over, exposing her back to Hanlon. As if it was his turn to talk, and hers to listen.
“Feels safer... When it's not as, um... Pitch black.” It wasn't really that it felt safer. It wasn't at all. The real problem was the unacquainted hiding in the dark, what you can't really see. He knew he'd be completely blind without some light, and that was what troubled him about the dark, losing the ability of visual perception.
When Hanlon at last fell asleep the remaining staff pulled the night-light switch, and the lobby room went pitch black.
In the morning, the sunlight rays peeked through the blinds. The sound of a rasp against the wooden floor was distinctive. Someone had pulled out a chair next to Hanlons bed.
“You're suffering from the disease Diabetic Retinopathy. It is, of course, caused by the diabetes you're suffering from. The blood vessels or tubes in the back of your eye have broken and blood is flooding into and damaging the parts of your eyes that will help you see. Surgery or medicine are your options, surgery being the best, since the case is urgent.”
Inconceivably he found himself at home. In a narrow apartment, there were lamps with colossal light bulbs and the apartment seemed encased with electricity. Then, poof...
Every bulb shrinks like shrivelled plants. The barrier of encasement brakes and blackness touches the doormat. He heeds the words 'will eventually initiate blindness'.
Hanlon panicked, blinked desperately in a hopeless attempt to discover the smallest spring of light. No, it wasn't working. He panicked. Kept blinking. Sweating, something rose a blockade shutting his throat in the dark. It kept every sound shut inside his lungs, kept his breath furthest away from the exit holes, and made him only express squeaks.