When being 'diabolical' makes more money than being 'veracious', and money is prerogative, society and creation tilt toward destruction. Greed becomes the sword in our guts, and it is, after all, the human mind and wants that twist the same sword in our guts- so, it's always in the human mind. It's always we ourselves who regulate this apprehension of pleonexia and malignancy in our characters. None other can remove what you have inflicted to your soul.
"122, Surrey Street, you say?" I ask her again, to confirm.
It's my fifth day of the week in the hospital- I've snuck out since Melian told me there was someone I'd need to attend to. Dans Lignum was established when I was twenty one and Melian was twenty two; we'd joined hands to raise a charitable organization that cared for abused and impecunious people and children. WIth time, our little place has grown into a large organization, garnering a lot of recognition and a lot more helping hands- so much so that Melian and I rarely need to fill in. The older people help to become family to the abused, penurious children- successfully forming a family filled with love that helps in sustainable development.
"Right. The fourth house from the left. You know, I didn't want to disturb you, but," she sighs, "It's near a cemetery and I-"
"I understand, okay? Get back to work, I'll leave a missed call once I'm done."
Melian has suffered from necrophobia since her 'granna' died. Melian has always been a cold and aloof person, opening up to the rarest of people- she loved her granna a lot. The nice old lady died when she was nine, unfortunately. Melian has always hated the title of the 'nerd', yet she's put up with it just to blend in and go unnoticed- which has always been futile since we've been together and I'm no less than the noisiest, loudest, brashest, rudest, most sarcastic and funny person ever who likes slapping people for a hobby.
Cheese! That's Achelois Crimson for you.
I drive my well-repaired Porsche Panamera that looks as good as new- it's funny when I consider all the things that money can do, until you use it the wrong way. It seems frivolous, then, even though you want to feel like all your wants have been fulfilled. A bright and beautiful day dawns upon the merry streets of California, the air carrying a melodious vibe, making me hum along with it.
As I enter the front of Surrey Street, the air gradually brings along the mellifluous peals of children's laughter, making the perfect ambience of conviviality. The morning slowly unravels into the afternoon as the car moves swiftly in the wide roads.
As I approach the far end of the street, I analyze the huge bungalows, but with the paint peeling on the outer walls, plants beginning to grow through the rocks- obviously and undeniably dilapidated and old as time. They might possibly have been houses belonging to old money that has begun to fade with the flow of time- they clearly show signs of life in there with the bustling noise and slippers strewn in front of the houses, as if the movement was rushed.
I check in at the 122nd House. Clearly, the house looks almost deserted and ready to be left alone. With homely red paint peeling off it's walls- it's neither big as one of those decaying bungalows nor shiny as the other houses on the street. A threadbare, vintage doormat, albeit welcoming and snug lays in the front, unattended and paid no notice towards.
I press the doorbell.
The door opens, revealing a short woman in her late fifties- and probably someone with an Italian origin. Hair of platinum, soles of the classic page, she looked slightly grizzled yet motherly, with that radiant smile on her face. I watch her, face entranced, the morning light reflected off her tanned and wrinkled skin and the eyes that belie her sixty years. She has laughter lines from her gift for smiling easily, her personality is all there to read in those creases. Then her face takes on a look of delight, "A cup of tea m'dear, let's have tea." So we do, made in a china pot, milk in a little jug, proper little cups like in an old movie. Then she shuffles over to the green travelling bag and after some rummaging she brings out two chocolate eclairs."Here," she gives one to me, "Trouble shared is trouble halved- I'm diabetic, I don't think both of them would be any good," she giggles. I widen my eyes, "You shouldn't have the other one either, then," I tell her in a gentle warning voice.
"Nah, lady," she says, retaining a wild and carefree stance, "Been on mah' own since long and I'm fit as a fiddle, uh huh!" She pops the eclair in her mouth and grins at me- the push I needed to eat the eclair, not that I really needed one.
"My friend and the co-founder of Dans Lignum sent me a compendium of intel about you, Auntie-"
"Hush," she waves her hand, "Call me Grandma. I feel shy," she chuckles, and I join in with her. "So, Grandma," I smile at her, looking at the reports on my tablet, "We have a Vittoria Ricci here," I tick the checkbox beside her name, "So, um, are you ready to embrace Dans Lignum as a new family?" I grin at her.
"I can't deny after having met you and the Melian gal," she shakes her head, but in agreement, "Your youth reminds me of mine, eager to run errands and ride that rusty bicycle round the countryside, waving at the folk," her face glows. "I've been alone since I was forty nine, young lady," she smiles, her sad smile reminding you of fond remembrance. "My son left me when he was twenty-two, guess I failed my role as a mum, as a wife, too," she closes her eyes and sighs, "I've never received letters, or calls- nothing from him- I am not angry that I haven't either," she purses her lips, "I just want to be relaxed and certain about the fact that he's fine, happy and more content," she grasps my cool hand that I offer her, in support, "I don't where it went wrong, but it sure did. Maybe it was the lack of a father," she says, touching the amulet around his neck, "I wish he'd have relieved us of all the happy memories before he left. For him, the pain was over in an instant- yet we lived with it- and we shall live on."
I sit there, silent, unknowing of the words I should've said to console her, but she isn't crying or something.
She waves her final goodbye to the house as she stands in the doorway, smiling at it- so I let her take her time. The cemetery is only next to the house beside this one- it's the most insalubrious house on the lane by far. The mailbox is broken and a fading red colour- it seems like the house hasn't seen any good days at all. It looks as if the inhabitants have been poor as church mice for a long time. As I avert my eyes and walk towards my car, I notice something else.
The woman wears clothes that look almost cast off- her hair is matted and in omnishambles. She holds locks of her soily, grimy hair and seizes them tightly, as if aiming to rip them apart to get rid of the pain. At first, I guess she has some mental health issues- but then I notice the two young teenage girls standing by her along with a few people who look like employees in white uniforms. On going a bit closer, I notice the insignia of a government-run hospital on the back of what seems to be a medico's coat.
"...You spent all your life gambling and drinking, how am I supposed to raise our children now?" The woman wails, holding her children close to her bosom, and then pressing her palm against what seems to be a corpse on a stretcher. The clinicians stand there quietly, before one of them finally perks up.
"Madam, you'll have to pay the hospital bills along with the medicines," the taller one says. Even though it feels erroneous, I can't help myself as I walk into their compound, my heels making a slight noise as six pairs of eyes look at me.
"If there's no issue," I say to her softly, "May I know what happened here?"
The hospital employees step away at my indication as the woman expunges her tears, yet it's the comportment of unavowed affliction that has been over epochs- it is this expression that makes my heart sink.
"My husband was diagnosed with liver cancer six months ago," she sobs and chokes, her words heavy in her tone and twisting my own conscience, "He had been a drunkard since I married him. Gave away all mah' money in gambling, and now, I don't know how we shall survive, let alone pay the hospital bills," she weeps, "I'm done for. My children are done for."
I put my hand on her shoulder in an act of commiseration.
"We checked in three government hospitals and all of them had different things to say," she carries on, "One of them said it was-" she rummages around in her old, tattered bag, "This is perplexing, so take a look at the reports rather than listen to old, silly me rant."
I take the three binders from her and open the first one. As I flick through the report, I culminate it's statement- it says that the patient suffers from liver cirrhosis due to excessive drinking and there might be requirements of a liver transplant. The second one, however, ironically, states liver cancer in it's final stage, and the third one speaks of fluid accumulation in the abdomen, ascites, with associated kidney failure. Extensively, it promulgates the condition of acute alcoholic hepatitis that has been characterized by rapid onset of jaundice, malaise, anorexia, tender hepatomegaly, and features of the systemic inflammatory response syndrome.
I murmur in response, "This is eldritch and downright underhand and crooked," I tell her, as a plan formulates in my head. I smile at her apologetically, "I don't know, but I might be able to help you, if you're willing to go along with my plan."
She stares at the unmoving cadaver of her husband once again before turning her head to look at me, this time, her eyes determined and steely. "Okay, young girl," she contends, "I trust you to help me out."
A/N:-
Might strike as kinda boring, but important because of a certain hint in this 'Hospital' Arc! Also, find the hint if you can! Not in this chapter, maybe, somewhere in the arc! Also, any guesses about what she's gonna do!?
Three different reports. What might that mean!?
Figure it out if you can.
QOTD- If you had to make a career choice, what direction would you usually think in?
Actually, I've been baffled since the past few days. I find just about anything to be easy, if I focus just a teensy-weensy bit. I've got varying interests. And at this point in sophomore year of high school, I still can't figure out what I want to pursue a career in.
Kk, that's enough ranting.
Your harebrained author,
Disha! ✌😎🐤