First Chapter To He Turned Right (First Draft)

Chapter 1

Two lifeless, soulless eyes stared at the burnt almond ceiling. Exceedingly erroneous machines beeped loudly in a cacophonous beat. The flat line squealed its hollow bleat. “What do we have here” said the young yet experienced doctor who strode into the room raring to save a life. “He’s coding” yelled the nurse, at least what could audibly be referred to as a yell from her old raspy voice. The doctors face was resolute, he had been in this situation before, ran over the possibilities in his head many a time. He knew he could accomplish what men of old would consider witchcraft, he could bring this man back to life. His nikes barely etched out a squeak as he took the four steps to the defibrillators. The cold tools of life felt almost like part of his body as he lifted the two pads into the air as if they were magical instruments born by the gods. In the second he had to look at his patient the thought of saving this life, for the first time ever, seemed almost pointless. The skin on the patient was a cracked white that looked as if it had not been washed in days, if not weeks. His lips were a chapped beyond that of someone trapped in the highest mountains of Himalayan supremacy. White cracks ran beyond the lips to his cheeks. Blisters and sores covered his body. He looked as if he had what one could only mistake for fingertips. They were black and brown. His hair was matted into lumps and probably housed many different genus and family of insect to which could only rival the late great Bob Marley.

It was only a second of doubt. His oaths were clear in his head and regardless of the lack of want or desire to save this poor souls life he knew he had to. “Crank it to 500, this piece of shits not going to die on me”. He rubbed the pads together building up the heart starting, life creating energy that as saved many a life before. The nurse used her old weary fingers to tear apart the now blatantly obvious crackhead’s shirt off. It took her multiple tries and left a dirty film on her fingers. The last and most violent rip caused a small glass instrument to become jostled out of the paupers pants. It then cascaded to the ground and smashed into a million resinous pieces. The nurse ignored the intrusion and glared back upon the corpse. The once pearly white shirt stolen from a Kmart was now a blotchy patchy mix of tar, dirt, ash and what could only be excrement. The shirt was torn, the fibs, were pulsed and all that was left was to pump him full of the essence of life. The doctor took a large breath seemingly filling the room with a sense of hope. “CLEAR”. Plastic and metal touched skin, electricity flowed. The body craned upwards with the jolt and shot back down to the bed just as quickly. “Give it some more, turn it to 750”. His voice commanded attention. The nurse turned the knob and the young doctor rubbed the extensions to his hands together. Machine and man were one. He would not lose this miser able waste of a life. He didn't understand he suddenly cared so much except that it was his job to save. He considered himself almost godly, angelic more appropriately in this light. “CLEAR”. The dance of fate had begun once more. Skin and metal hit. Pulsations rose through the body like a train had struck in a sneaking blow.

The emergency room was silent. All the sound had been sucked in momentarily by the scene. A shrill beep cut the air like a katana. A wave rushed into the body and filed every crevasse and every nook in the body. He emanated a gasp filling his lungs with sweet sweet delicious air. The eyes that were once lifelessly staring at the ceiling had now been brightened and even twinkled for a second as he voraciously sat up and took in his surroundings. A young man stood before him holding what had to be the tools that had woken him from the eternal slumber. He saw many mechanical devices hooked to him with tubes, wires and many other things he did not quite understand. He saw the old nurse slowly walk away to tend to another dying patient. His mouth was dry, and he could not form the words that he wanted to. “Here this will help you calm down a little bit” explained the young doctor as he gave him a shot of morphine. The doctor knew this would only further addle the drug riddled man but thought that he had experienced enough of the bad parts of life.

The crackhead rested his head back on his pillow. The drugs filed him full of the reassurance he always gained from drugs. He coughed, a hacking cough, phleghmy and disgusting. “Can I have some water” he mumbled effected by the recently induced drug stupor. The doctor filled a white plastic cup and gave it to him. The almost corpse snatched the cup with his greedy fingers from the strong hands of the doctor, soon followed by a vivacious slurping. His thirst now quenched he once again led on the bed. His life filled eyes met the ceiling once more. Though filled with life they were still devoid of a soul. He had lost his soul long ago. It was now trapped in a opaque white rock commonly referred to as crack cocaine. He had sold his soul to this white devil many, many moons ago. A slumber overtook him but other thoughts soon raped the feelings of drowse. The hunger had come back. Although the morphine had begun to quench his other thirst it was not quite enough. The hunger was deep, physical pain. It ate away at him from the inside like he was pregnant with a piranha or vampire of some sort. He could rarely make it an hour without feeling the pains. The hunger also clouded his mind, made him see things that were or were not there, made him act irrationally and cause him to think everyone even inanimate objects were against him. Those in fancy medical fields relating to the brain would call him a drug induced schizophrenic. It was not always him who was hungry. It was another person inside him that usually craved the hardest.

He opened his eyes and caught the bright fluorescent light and it triggered something inside of him. He realized the obvious. He had no health insurance, which honestly was the least of his worries. He had to get out of the place that had just given him back life. The frosty young blond nurse with a penchant for wearing highly inappropriate clothing while at work did not see the events to come. First he ripped the various tubes out of his arm and threw them at the wall, yes a little dramatic but he usually liked to leave the company of normal working people with a bang. The flimsy plastic side rail of his hospital bed broke under the weight of him hoisting himself out. The hospital floor was cold on his crusty, worn and highly, almost outrageously thick bottomed feet which resembled those of a hobbit. The morphine caused him to wobble on contact with the ground and he spun counterclockwise trying to find the clearest possible escape route. Three steps to the right his body decided without his permission, mostly influenced by the strong narcotics, narrowly missing a cart of pills. “Wait, a cart of pills” he thought. Grabbing a bucket he started forcing all the pills within. Everything around him didn’t matter until he realized that half the ER was staring at him and some may be calling in security. He saw his one big break, a large gray door with a glass window and a large red exit sign. His legs began to run before he had definitely decided to do so. The door opened with a loud whoosh and the daylight attacked his face in the harshest of manners. Had he made a mistake? Before he could even think about what to do next an alarm began to squeal, echoing through the busy halls of the hospital. It was a fire escape door. A look over his shoulder revealed that the alarm was the least of his worries as two burly security officials were making a bee line straight to him. Fear was not uncommon in his life but the realization that he was not welcome in the place where his life was saved because of his choices rocked his foundations to the core. As he ran away towards his dilapidated life he questioned whether or not he still had a foundation at all. Did he have morals? A reason to live? Whatever the answer he had no choice but to run and run till he reached home, or at least what he called home. The hunger was strong.