Doctor Monroe and the Social Taboo: (Or Mentally Forbidden?)

Chapter 3: Week Two

Pale eyes that glisten as a gleaming silver, they pierce me first, a dagger to my heart. My eyes remained unopened as the soft whirling of the hazel beverage came to light. Hazel.

His murky eyes wallow into mine. The hazel oceans have returned. The flower blossoms ever brighten and the chocolate glimmers, begging me to taste.

My vision blurs as the weird sensation of bells ringing sings in my ear drums, neck twisting rapidly side to side. My feel my tense fingertips crawl upwards upon my shirt, they latch themselves like leaches upon my shoulder, feasting upon the tightness of my tie. Although the usual blabber and blur of human voices, jostling over facts, opinions and conscious resonate through my ears, the faint drip and swirl of the coffee lingers moreover. The haze…no…I shouldn’t call it that…the subtle Oakwood curves and foams within the blandness of a collared paper cup. The dark murkiness of the cup ravishing in its liquids.

Deep Murky eyes. Waves whirl over me wrapping me in delicate hug, not wanting to let to go. I let them. They feel passionate and surprising and leave me breathless, my throat rasping for air even though I take none.

Over, and over, and over again, the scent spiralling and pivoting into the oxygen, allow my nostrils to yield into its harmony with each passing breath. The urge creeps and crawls inside of me and I resist every singular urge to let my lips part. Their dryness as creased and cracked as a cremated soul. Within each passing second the urge grows and spawns, each cell becoming infected with this feeling. This sudden curse. Somewhere deep inside the choruses beckon for something to free me from this plague that had buried it’s seed without consent. It bore antagonistic charms witch pattered me at every falter…Please saviour….

“Your bastards a queer you know.”

Speaking of antagonistic. Terry Solomon. Amongst the dreaded doctors that had burned the organisations halls, amongst those same men and women whom had he subject to either lawful or unlawful, moral or unmoral vilification, Doctor Solomon stood above all. Rumours had it that this mechanically human abomination had targeted several nurses before. Many told stories of him in hushed tones about scandalous affairs and the horrid creaks of his actions against woman of a certain age. If there was ever a man to label with Mary Shelley’s novel, this man was both monster and Frankenstein.

I open my eyes, allowing the small isolation of the bland room to engulf me. Pale desk. Uncaring cupboards. The only flash of colour, a steel kettle and even that could be deemed as lifeless. More tool than machine.  I knew I had only seconds to amount a response or offense could be taken so I let my cracked lips stutter.

“Excuse me?”

Good job. He’ll slaughter me now.

I let this perverted madman begin his suggestive ranting. The curls of his short dirty blonde hair and silk emerald eyes, do nothing to calm the insanity that he spews. That I have the unfortunate pleasure of listening to.       

“Your Patient.” He states calmly but I can hear the pure distain within his vocal chords, they have been churned down, however their leash is thin. “He’s a gay shit. I hate his kind. His people. They’re all fake y’know? Like, they all say they love cock. They’re not right. Not real. If I were you mate, I’d drop my pants and make him to ‘blow my whistle’ if you know what I mean? Haha, he might enjoy it the sick fuck.” he flashes a smile and nudges my shoulder roughly to the point where I felt he had bruised it, but before I could rebut, his propaganda continues.

“Maybe I’ll visit him before my shifts up.”

I feel something unholy cross his lips as my mind stalls.  

They’re not right. Not real

No…that wasn’t true…I wouldn’t believe it…but what about me? About the dream. Well…It was only one. I couldn’t believe it was any more than that. A fabrication of my mind. Was it? The chorus inside me roared in laughter with their mockery of my stupidity. I was straight! I had a wife! All those nights Monty’s Edge! What was I? A fool? Probably…My fingertips rush the rivers of hair upon my scalp back, their soft and caressing seams, silkily to the touch. It was only then that the image of my now bland and cold coffee rushed to my eye line. Small worms cuddle and gently caress my shoulder, a familiar feeling. The sensation sends small rivets through my, I knew whom those soft delicate fingers belonged to. I twirl, my drought-like lips part, my soft voice guessing her name.

“Lauren?”

I watch her cheeks ripple upwards, churning like rivers of happiness, the aforementioned happiness glowing through her cheeks into a tinge of rosy red. Her hair floats down from her fair skinned forehead and curves lightly, resting upon her shoulders, streaks of lilac randomly splashed from strand to strand, her overall pattern unsure. Must had faded out after several washes. It is the first time I notice her navy blue eyes, they curl within her pupils like waves and relish, they drag me close to her, but I can feel small portion of my heart tug me away. The small boy’s screams hidden somewhere beneath my heart. Her figure is silk and it is obvious she works out regularly as her shoulders perk under the muscular improvement, their natural shaped broadened by the exhaustion of physical exercise. If I had the choice to pick a certain word to describe her, it would have been adorable. That same word I also say as I have to pause to correct myself.

“A,” the pause halts my thought, “I mean,” feverously I feel the blood rush like knives to my cheeks and my breath bickering slightly, talking to girls…not my forte, “Ahem,” I feel the salvia churn in my throat as once more I try and salvage whatever dignity I had from the embarrassments withholding clutches, “Is there…Anything I can help you with?”

She giggles, her ripe red cheeks bouncy slightly as her hand suddenly glides upon my shoulder and squeezes it tentatively and reassuringly, “Nope,” her upbeat voice charms, it seems so lively, but was that truly her? Something inside me quizzically provoked doubts, “I actually was more concerned about you.”

Her last line confuses me as my heartbeat suddenly picks up, droplets of something suddenly forming at the tip of my hairline. Sweat? Why? She hasn’t even mentioned Matt! Why am I thinking of Matt? Argh! The Chorus deep down jeers and tries to patter me with reassurance, while I feel bursts and fits of laughter from the small boy. Why was this so assuming? I have nothing to hide.

“M-me?” I stuttered, confused, I try and silence the chorus and the small boy as much as possible, and focus on the, supposed friend that stood in front of me. I scream at myself as my cheeks grow hotter and the blood flutters into them more passively than before. “What concern?”

“Terry’s a douche,” Her vocals say, a harden tone used on the word, ‘douche’, to be honest I am not sure if that is an actual word. A dictionary is required. Stirring I return to her presence as suddenly I realize, her statement is true and yet it manages to keep me imbalanced and startled as I feel my eyes beg her to lower to hushed tones. “I hate him,” she adds of soft, pure laugh before continuing, “Most people do!”

The navy blue pearls vanish from my view as I notice her gaze is now directed to her watch. I let her tangents flourish as she blushes and mentions something about her mother’s dinner party and how she wished I could join and whatnot and how the time was 4:40 and she was already late for a meeting. I feel my eyes widen as I processed a crucial wisp of information and the realization delivers a stunning side kick to my gut. It pounds away at me abusive and cruel as ever.

…4:40…I was late for Matt!

The image burns within my mind…

The tinge blossoms outwards, its leaflets erupting with open arms, shining into mine. They sparkle and shimmer within the darkness of his pupil, glimmering. I can’t look away. It is then then I realize…

I’m running.

For Matt.

Question was:

Why?