Dreams - 3/49

Dr. Nichols shouted himself hoarse. He knew there was no point, but that knowledge was distant and abstract. He backed away from the unconscious young man on the chair and asked a familiar question, "What use is this?" He hefted a vial of smelling salts. He didn't understand why he thought they would revive Lazarus. Lazarus hadn't fainted! He was having an allergic reaction to the mineral, just like the others. And just like the others, no treatment was working. "What use is this?" Dr. Nichols shouted. He raised his hand to crush the vial into a steel countertop, but controlled the impulse. He set the vial on the counter.

He felt like he watched himself. It was as if he were getting a new perspective. Perhaps from the yellow bulb flickering above? He almost laughed, but there wasn't any time for that. A life hung in the balance! He turned back to Lazarus and felt for his pulse. "This is a routine checkup," Dr. Nichols muttered. "We have nurses to handle this kind of thing!" This caused Dr. Nichols to giggle, perched as he was on his new viewpoint. He saw the crumbling mortar and grime-filled tile of the abandoned immediate care building. The thought of a nurse walking through these halls, primly stopping to ask the drooling water main if it needed assistance, was absurd.

He checked Lazarus’ pupils, shining a penlight into each eye. Shadows wavered as the light shook. He fancied he saw something unnatural in the depths of that unconscious stare. He gripped the light. He steadied his hand. One brown eye. One blue eye. It was unusual, but not unheard of. The pupils were dilated and unresponsive. That was all. Just another comatose patient. A slab of meat soon to be making paperwork for the morgue. "We have interns to handle that," he whispered. His face took on a sour look when he heard himself. He blinked rapidly.

"Not another death," he hissed. His yellowed fingernails pressed into valleys beneath prominent cheekbones as he turned Lazarus' head. The green examination gown rustled. Dr. Nichols stepped back and kicked the base of the raised chair. The chair was bolted to the floor, and now his foot hurt. "Chair!" he bellowed, stamping his foot onto the cracked tile. "Can't even afford a decent chair!" Dr. Nichols sucked in breath, his eyes focused on the chipped door. "I don't give a good goddamn that there's a war on, we need better funding! You expect me to work some kind of," he laughed, "miracle!"