Page 16 of Heart Sick

Dr. Norton is one shrewd woman as she has only assigned women to look after me. Seems a little sexist, but she knows I would never hit a woman. I would never hit a man either, but if my knee happened to accidentally on purpose connect with their dick, then it’s survival of the fittest.

Monique wheels over my chair and smiles. I envision it on fire as I climb out of bed and sit into it. Monique straps me in, before placing the gray blanket over my legs, and away we are. I do feel better the moment we exit my room.

I do hope she wheels me past the room of the woman I heard cussing out the doctor yesterday. I couldn’t see her, but heard her, and dare I say by her sarcasm alone, we’re destined to become great friends.

But she doesn’t.

She wheels me down the hallway and the starkness, the absence of color, just adds to the depressing vibe this place embodies. This establishment is supposed to make people better, but I can’t imagine any healing could be done in an institution such as this.

The hospital has different wards, but this ward is for the people, who, like me, don’t want to exist. Seems unfair we are forced to be here. It isourlives.

I don’t look into the rooms of others because who am I to judge? Why they’re here is none of my business. What is my business is trying to end this silence. I see the irony in that as I assume most are in here to silence the noise.

While me, I want it to deafen me.

It’s fucking cold out and with any luck, I’ll die of phenomena. But Monique steers me toward the wooden pergola and parks my chair underneath. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do because I can look at this view from my room, but here we are.

She sits near me and opens a magazine. A nurse walks past a moment later and whispers something into Monique’s ear, looking at me with a smile.

“Wow.”

I doubt Monique is using that phrase to describe the miserable view, so I turn my cheek to look at her, but am taken aback to catch her staring at me. She’s given me a sponge bath, so I literally have nothing to hide. I wonder what she’s looking at then.

The other nurse throws me a wink before walking away.

“You’re like famous.”

I arch a brow. “I’m really not. If I was, would I be strapped to a wheelchair, being spoon-fed by your lovely self?”

Her cheeks turn a bright shade of red. “One of the other nurses said you went to Juilliard. All the music tattoos now make sense.”

I’m honored they’d take the time to look me up, but I hate to be the bearer of bad news. “They may as well be balloon animals because none of them make any sense to me anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Clearly, the other nurse failed to explain why I tried to carve my heart out with a pen. “It means I used to live and breathe music, and now…now I can’t hear a single thing.”

Her eyes soften. “That’s so sad. Is that why you’re in here?”

“I guess so.”

“You’ve been neutered,” she says, which is not exactly the word I would use.

But when she comes to a stand and peers around to ensure no one is watching, I soon understand why she opted to use such a phrase. When she is content we’re alone, she drops to her knees before me and subtly places her hands under the blanket.

To anyone looking on, it would appear she is just making me comfortable and, I suppose, in a way she is as she runs her fingers over my dick. The thin hospital gown leaves nothing to the imagination, but she’s seen it all regardless.

I watch with interest as she licks her bottom lip. “Maybe you just need to find a muse? Someone who can inspire a work of art from you. Isn’t that how artists work?”

I’m only half listening to her because her hand on my dick is very distracting. I don’t want it to feel good, but it does.

“I don’t work that way,” I reply, trying to keep my shit together because this shouldn’t be happening. This isn’t going to inspire anything other than regret when I come in her hand, which will happen very soon as she bypasses the gown and commences jerking me off.

“How do you work then?”

I like that she gives me eye contact, that she is owning her actions. She knows what this means if we get caught, but it seems she doesn’t care as she begins to stroke me faster.

“Life is my muse,” I explain, trying to measure my breaths. “I would be inspired by being alive.”

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