Post by Orimis on Nov 25, 2010 12:32:31 GMT -8
(Edit/note: This came to me as a sort of story idea, but I decided to post it here. I am aware that I have not established much, but if anyone wants to jump in as one of Brian's friends, or as anything else, that's fine. If this goes unattended, I will just move it.)
The lobby in Hôpital de La Grave was a quiet, but for the hum of the fluorescent lights. Their glow took the color out of everything; even the apple-cheeked nurses looked dead. The blue-and-tan lobby chairs were bolted to the floor, and to each other, so that guests would have to make friendly with each others’ elbows on busy days.
Thankfully, Brian did not have to share his arm-rests with anyone. He was alone in this sterile place, except for the girl across from him, who had been crying. She looked beautiful, even with thick, black mascara all down her cheeks. Her teeth were toothpaste-ad-white, and she had eyes like emeralds. Her hair was frizzy, but still held tight curls that fell all down her back and around her face. She wore a buttoned-up white shirt with a tie whose color was such a disgusting attempt at maroon that it had to be a uniform thing. Her long black boots almost reached the hem of her skirt, but there was still creamy skin in between. The top buttons of her shirt were undone, and her breasts were almost pushed up out of it.
She looked so out of place, like a sad clown hooker.
She sniffled pitifully and looked up at him. Seeming to realize herself, she dabbed at her face with a finger.
“Oh,” she said. She smoothed the pleats of her skirt and laughed—or sobbed—and quieted.
“Who are you here for?” Brian asked.
The girl squeaked and looked around, as if unsure to whom Brian was speaking; then she met his eyes, and took a breath.
“My father was in a crash,” she blubbered, sniffling. “He was on a motor cycle, and the other guy was in a big car and—” she let out a gasping sort of whimper “—nobody got his license number.”
Brian nodded, unsure how to comfort someone who had already sobbed off most of her face.
“Why are you here?” she asked. Her curiosity distracted her from her crying.
“An attack,” Brian replied, unable to repress the sudden edge in his words. The thought of his boyfriend upstairs, bleeding to death on an operating table, was enough to bring back all the emotions that he had already processed. He looked away, and instead busied himself with his wallet. He counted what little was left of his money, and sighed.
“You’re not from around here,” the girl asked, nodding toward Brian’s American money.
“No,” Brian said. “Thankfully, I have friends here. We’ll be able to get away and solve this.”
The girl nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said when Brian met her eyes again. She had calmed down now; her sad clown hooker face had dried on.
“I’m sure your boyfriend will be okay,” she offered. “The doctors here are good.”
Brian stopped fumbling with his wallet.
“What?”
“Sorry,” the girl said, a little louder. “The doctors here are—”
“How do you know I’m here for my boyfriend?”
“You told me!” the girl exclaimed, laughing.
“No I didn’t.”
The girl opened her mouth, looking like she might argue. She snapped it shut just as forcefully, and looked away.
“I’m a good guesser.”
“No you’re not,” Brian asserted. “You’re psychic.”
“Don’t be sill—”
“You heard me call you a sad clown hooker before we started talking. You laughed.”
“It was funny!”
Brian raised his eyebrow at her.
She sighed. “This doesn’t bother you?”
“You’re not the first one I’ve dealt with,” Brian said somewhat dryly.
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t speak French,” Brian said. He delivered it as an explanation, forgetting that the girl was clueless.
“We’ve been talking,” she argued. “Of course you do!”
“Simple magic,” Brian said. “Why learn a language when I can allow people to understand me?”
The girl blinked as she wrapped her head around the idea.
“Okay... I thought you were oddly well-spoken for an American.”
"Why does everyone say that?"
The lobby in Hôpital de La Grave was a quiet, but for the hum of the fluorescent lights. Their glow took the color out of everything; even the apple-cheeked nurses looked dead. The blue-and-tan lobby chairs were bolted to the floor, and to each other, so that guests would have to make friendly with each others’ elbows on busy days.
Thankfully, Brian did not have to share his arm-rests with anyone. He was alone in this sterile place, except for the girl across from him, who had been crying. She looked beautiful, even with thick, black mascara all down her cheeks. Her teeth were toothpaste-ad-white, and she had eyes like emeralds. Her hair was frizzy, but still held tight curls that fell all down her back and around her face. She wore a buttoned-up white shirt with a tie whose color was such a disgusting attempt at maroon that it had to be a uniform thing. Her long black boots almost reached the hem of her skirt, but there was still creamy skin in between. The top buttons of her shirt were undone, and her breasts were almost pushed up out of it.
She looked so out of place, like a sad clown hooker.
She sniffled pitifully and looked up at him. Seeming to realize herself, she dabbed at her face with a finger.
“Oh,” she said. She smoothed the pleats of her skirt and laughed—or sobbed—and quieted.
“Who are you here for?” Brian asked.
The girl squeaked and looked around, as if unsure to whom Brian was speaking; then she met his eyes, and took a breath.
“My father was in a crash,” she blubbered, sniffling. “He was on a motor cycle, and the other guy was in a big car and—” she let out a gasping sort of whimper “—nobody got his license number.”
Brian nodded, unsure how to comfort someone who had already sobbed off most of her face.
“Why are you here?” she asked. Her curiosity distracted her from her crying.
“An attack,” Brian replied, unable to repress the sudden edge in his words. The thought of his boyfriend upstairs, bleeding to death on an operating table, was enough to bring back all the emotions that he had already processed. He looked away, and instead busied himself with his wallet. He counted what little was left of his money, and sighed.
“You’re not from around here,” the girl asked, nodding toward Brian’s American money.
“No,” Brian said. “Thankfully, I have friends here. We’ll be able to get away and solve this.”
The girl nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said when Brian met her eyes again. She had calmed down now; her sad clown hooker face had dried on.
“I’m sure your boyfriend will be okay,” she offered. “The doctors here are good.”
Brian stopped fumbling with his wallet.
“What?”
“Sorry,” the girl said, a little louder. “The doctors here are—”
“How do you know I’m here for my boyfriend?”
“You told me!” the girl exclaimed, laughing.
“No I didn’t.”
The girl opened her mouth, looking like she might argue. She snapped it shut just as forcefully, and looked away.
“I’m a good guesser.”
“No you’re not,” Brian asserted. “You’re psychic.”
“Don’t be sill—”
“You heard me call you a sad clown hooker before we started talking. You laughed.”
“It was funny!”
Brian raised his eyebrow at her.
She sighed. “This doesn’t bother you?”
“You’re not the first one I’ve dealt with,” Brian said somewhat dryly.
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t speak French,” Brian said. He delivered it as an explanation, forgetting that the girl was clueless.
“We’ve been talking,” she argued. “Of course you do!”
“Simple magic,” Brian said. “Why learn a language when I can allow people to understand me?”
The girl blinked as she wrapped her head around the idea.
“Okay... I thought you were oddly well-spoken for an American.”
"Why does everyone say that?"