Ange – ch. 1

“There’s no difference between the name brand suicide tabs and generic, but people love that logo,” she heard as she woke.

Ange woke up. She was alive. She was alive! Damn.

Her suicide attempt hadn’t worked. ¹ It could have been an hour or a year since she’d passed out. She was confused; she wasn’t anywhere she knew. She tried to move her hands, but they were strapped to the bed. She looked around and saw a huge amphitheater. It was populated by rows of beds. One section, cordoned off with a velvet rope, had a sign that said “Contagious Disease Ward.”

She was in the hospital, she realized. The fancy one. The one that had rope. ²

Ange didn’t know how she’d been found. She’d gone out of her way to disappear. She’d broken quarantine and trespassed well into the Blue Mountains Thermonuclear Range. Her entire goal was to leave plausible doubt that she was still alive. THEN maybe he would miss her. He was probably regretting how he treated her now, she thought. ³

She had found an isolated spot, taken some chewable morphine and fired a gun at the snow, causing an avalanche, which buried her alive. It was a convoluted homage to Roscoe. ⁴

Her whole body ached. Even her bangs hurt. She felt cold and sleepy, which was enough of a reason for her not to freak out. Over the next few hours, she flitted in and out of consciousness.

Finally, a person in a medical grade trashbag was by her bed when she opened her eyes. He saw she was up.

“Angela, can you hear me? Can you understand me? Good. You were halfway gone by the time we brought you here. We managed to leech some bad blood out of you and you lived. Thank Roscoe the suicide tabs slowed down your metabolism long enough for you to be rescued,” Dr. James said. “I’m the night janitor and head doctor, please call me Mr. James,” he said, introducing himself. ⁵

“I do have some bad news for you. You’ve suffered some serious medical problems. Your really hurt your brain, liver, ovaries, and pinkie toe…” Ange could not concentrate on what he was saying, she had the world’s worst pinkie ache.

“You’re going to have to stay here for observation until we need your bed or your insurance runs out. After which, you’ll be transferred to a homeless shelter or an incinerator for safety.” Mr. James pointed a short distance away.

Ange looked. The homeless shelter was only a few yards away. but her eye was drawn to a large man shuffling between three seats. Sitting in each, then starting over again, as if on a loop. She resolved to go to the incinerator instead.

As if reading her mind, Mr. James cautioned, “try not to think about the fact that the prison area is behind the curtain. Don’t catch anyone’s eye. And definitely don’t wander around, or you might end up on the execution block or parking lot by mistake.” ⁶

“That doesn’t seem to be the most effective layout,” Ange replied, noting the haphazardly placed curtains. Mr. James shrugged.

“Well, it’s either this or taxes.” Mr. James shrugged. He paused long enough to make the situation awkward and then left without a word. He was paid based on the number of patients he saw, so he did his best to get to a higher ground whenever possible.

Ange laid back and wallowed. She felt weak. More life. More time alone. Maybe forever. Forever alone. She was over Eugene. She wasn’t even thinking about him anymore. She wished she could share that with him so that he would feel bad and know how little he’d affected her. That would show him.

She shivered and wondered if this feeling of coldness and soreness would remain forever. Not for the last time, she wished something would end her struggle. She grew groggy as the carbon monoxide in the building increased to dangerous levels. With reassuring thoughts of self-harm, Ange fell into the deepest slumber.

––

The next morning, Ange got out of bed and walked around, trying to get the lay of the land. The hospital was in an old Rugby Union stadium. A lot of tragedy had happened in this place, some of it even after the Melbourne Storm were drafted into the war.

She made a note of particularly sturdy rafters as she walked around to the various beds. The curtains didn’t really stop the sounds of moaning, screaming, or crying that echoed around the building, let alone their respective sounds.

“Excuse me,” Ange asked a person in a white outfit. “Can you direct me to the toilet?”

The person, a large bald man with tattoos, turned and stared at her for a while before he responded. “That way.”

“Thank you,” Ange started to walk in the direction he indicated when she heard him unzip and head toward her bed. She deliberately spent a few awkward minutes wandering around, before realizing he’d sent her in the exact wrong direction.

She needed a drink. But the only bar she found was in the maternity ward and the cloud of smoke made her stay away. Ange was curious about how things worked. She was a journalist. She should have been taking notes. But she knew she was in a makeshift mental institution. She should have been taking mental notes.