[Osborn Plot] Clinic Visits

I’ve spent a fair share of my time in hospitals, both as a patient and as a visitor. It’s a danger of the business -- or one of them, at any rate. The pervasive smell of antiseptic and the feel of starched-within-an-inch-of-their-life sheets are unfortunately familiar, as is the near constant parade of doctors checking in periodically, making sure I haven’t shuffled off this mortal coil since the last time we spoke.

The pain, though, that one’s new. Not because I haven’t been hurt before, obviously -- I have, and way worse than this -- but it’s never taken this long to heal. I mean, I’m used to measuring recovery time in hours, and now they’re telling me it’ll be months before I’m back up to speed. And I’d complain -- I’d gripe and I’d moan and I’d be a real heel all around -- but there’s a woman dead because of me, and I figure this is a pretty small price to pay in comparison.

Having refused medication for a list of reasons as long as my arm -- a choice I almost regretted the second I caught a glimpse of myself in a helpfully reflective spoon -- sleep’s been my only real means of escape these past few days, not that much of it’s been very restful. Mary Jane’s gone when I wake up this time, heart racing from another nightmare starring Norman. Groggy and more than a little disoriented, I carefully sit up, wincing.