A sterile white, his favorite color, beamed down from the ceiling. He walked down a path of doors, each one holding a story. None of these stories were his to write, but he could edit them all, improve them with his skills ad knowledge.
â??Dr. Dougless, we are having a problem with the patient in room 959, Mr. C. Harper.
â??Yes, we had him on dialysis if I remember correctly.â?
â??You did, but he is struggling with the procedure, if this keeps up I am unsure if he will make it.â?
These stories were not his to write. He personally hated tragedies, though he knew most of those doors were nothing but a the covers of them. He opened one of his books, and inside he found the island. Not his normal tragedy, but it would do.
~
It would certainly do. Do a great job of waking the doctor up. His breathing was heavy, heartbeat erratic, and sweat glazed his exposed skin. The widened eyes belonging to Douglass scored the room for the source of the sudden hallucination. A dream. Yes, that's what it was... A sigh of relief washed over the man's face as he wiped his hand over it. Or was it? He leaned back upon his palms, trying to decipher just where he was. The familiar dull color of the ceiling walls greeted him, as well as the mahogany colored couch he lay upon. He was in his office; that's what it was. Not the white, unnatural office of his dreams, but his island office. It was fully intact with the beige colored painting upon the walls and ceiling, the tile floor, and the odd objects he had put up here and there to make it seem much more lively. If he wasn't so disturbed by this vision, he would have smiled to himself at the presentation of his home.
Quickly, he rose, moving towards the oaken desk that lay in the middle of the room. This was his personal room. He kept what medical records he could record here, as well as having his own desk to work at and a couch to relax, or sleep if need be; like he had just done. His actions were still frantic, the familiarity of his environment had yet to calm his nerves, and his hands searched the desk for paper and a writing utensil. In the process, he shuffled a couple folders to the floor, and they clacked upon it. But the doctor was too busy to care at the present moment. He sat upon the chair writing the first thing that came to his mind.
[i]'White'
'Dialysis'
'Procedure'
'Won't make it'
'959.'
'959...'
'C Harper'
'C Harper!'
'C HARPER'[/i]
"Goddamn it!" He exclaimed, chucking the writing tool across the room. His breathing was coming harsher, and he covered his mouth as it did. His eyes widened, staring at that paper. His shoulders heaved with rage. Anger poured from his being. The cool down was a slow, and silent process as the man sat there for what felt like an eternity staring upon the white. Sterile white. There it was again! He slammed his hand upon the table, walking out of his office before slamming the door. Deep breaths he reminded himself. Deep breaths calmed the body, and he needed calm. A doctor musn't let emotions get in the way of his procedures. But one thing was for certain: his destination was the Recorder; for against his will, Douglass himself had become infected. It was only a matter of time before he would fade just like countless other before him. Unlike them though, he was determined to survive; whatever the cost.