I'm Meeting You In The Woods
*1995*
...
I recall a conversation with my first roommate, back when I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. I had been new then, and that was the first and only time I had ever hoped to bond with anyone.
We had been talking about anything and nothing and everything for months, quickly becoming best friends in a short amount of time.
“Langston Hughes,” Penelope said, leaning back in her bed thoughtfully. “I can relate to Dream Deferred on a personal level."
I nodded. "He's a great poet, but I think that's who most people go to, because he's the only one they know. I prefer James Baldwin."
"I suppose," Penelope replied, shrugging.
I sighed dramatically and turned towards Penelope. "I'm glad I can talk to someone about poetry. No one else really understands my liking for it."
"Yeah." Penelope agreed.
“When I was in secondary school, we did this unit on poets,” I began, fiddling with the blue blankets on my bed.
“Is that when you fell in love with them?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t like poetry until last year. Anyways, we had to pick a poet from the twenties and write a report on them. Fifteen inches. I picked Jean Toomer, because of his last name.”
“That’s not odd. I used to do things like that too.”
“Yeah. When I read my report, everyone started to whisper how his name relates to me.”
“That’s bloody stupid.”
“Yeah. But I gritted my teeth and kept on reading.”
She didn’t have to say anything, but Penelope always got me. I knew she did. Simply from the way she looked at me and smiled; it felt as though she could see directly into my soul; know my exact thoughts. I had always longed for a friend like that.
Penelope and I had hit it off instantly. She was watching My So Called Life , for god’s sake. I snickered as she stared in wonder at Bess Armstrong prancing around the screen. She immediately turned to me with a hurt expression on her face.
“At least I’m not a Friends fan.”
I scoffed. “Hardly. If you like this crappy show, you definitely root for Rachel and Ross to get together.”
“Do not.”
“Do to.”
“Do not!”
“Let’s agree to disagree.”
“Fine.” The girl stretched with a huff. “What are you in here for?”
“Same as you.”
She rolled her eyes. “I doubt it. What’s your name?” She asked curiously, switching off the television. I could tell she already missed Claire Danes’s presence.
“Lavender.”
“I’m Penelope, and I want to be your friend.”
“Why?” I laughed.
“You’re quick with your tongue. I like that in a girl.”
I smiled. “Ok, let’s be friends. Maybe you can show me the ropes to this place.”
“Great.”
...
“Ross is an arsehole.”
“Agreed. So are all of them, though.”
“True.”
She was silent for a moment. "Do you like boys?"
It was at this moment when something changed inside me; I had a revelation, and it was the beginning of the end. Of course I liked boys (not that I ever had the chance to do anything with them); I got along fine with them. Harry and Ron from across the hall were a delight hoot from time to time, and Ron sometimes looked at me in this way that no one else did. But he wasn’t going anywhere (that much I could tell early on), so I had all the time in the world to figure out if I found him attractive or not. So, of course I liked them as people, however…
Thoughts were too confusing at the moment.
"That question surely came out of nowhere,” I finally answered.
"Sorry." Penelope blushed. "I'm just curious. Do you?"
"Of course,” I said quickly. “What girl wouldn't?"
"Er. Someone I know, I suppose."
I quickly sat up in my bed, ignoring the way the IV in my chest tugged painfully. "Are they some sort of… of queer?" I asked.
Penelope's frowned, something flashing in her eyes. "Of course not. Would you have a problem if I were?"
I shrugged and laid back down. "My parents don't really like that sort of thing, but I don't care. I was just wondering."
"Good. I have an old friend who is, and he was… he was beaten for it."
I shuddered. If I were… I didn't want to imagine what my parents would do.
"Anyways, I just meant…" Penelope continued slowly, as if picking out each word individually. "I just meant that I don't understand the appeal of boys. Whatever. That's all."
"I mean I've never been with one," I gestured to my pile of wires hanging out of me. "But they seem very nice. And I suppose I was just brought up that way, you know?"
"You're right. You're a little too young to be thinking about boys, anyhow."
I laughed. "Hardly younger than you. What are you, sixteen?"
"Seventeen, actually."
"Like that's any better."
"Still."
"I get it."
And the conversation ended there, for Penelope smiled prettily at me and opened her mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by a cough.
"Ms. Clearwater?"
"Yeah?" Penelope answered, turning away from me and to the door in the middle of the room where Nurse Pomfrey stood.
"They're ready for you now," the latter said, unplugging the former's machine from the wall and loosening the brakes on her bed.
"Wish me luck!" Penelope said to me as she rolled out of the room.
"Good luck, see you in a few hours!" I called after her. She gave me a little wave as she disappeared down the corridor. “Remember my dream!” I added on jokingly. It’d give her something to think about.
I never saw her again.
...
It’s never a surprise when a deceased patient is wheeled out and the next alive one rolls into the vacated space a few weeks later. Or perhaps the latter isn’t alive. We never truly are; we’re just specimens being studied by doctors and interns practicing for their medical degree. We’re here for the advancement of science, living a death sentence whilst prodded with needles and woken up every few hours due to the never ending sound of the machine indicating you’re still alive.
Sometimes people dream about living in hospitals, having something happen to them so they can take advantage of their friends’ support and being too weak to lift a cup, let alone the door to the garbage shoot out. People who have these dreams are selfish, and ignorant of the disadvantages to living in a hospital, staring at the same ceiling every day unless it’s for an MRI. And for others, living in a hospital would be their worst nightmare; the medical tools, the claustrophobia, the never ending worry from your parents, etc.
Some have said they hate hospitals because of the people and the smells, but I think I’ve gotten used to it after a year. Especially after watching too-sick-to-live patients be wheeled out, knowing I’ll never see them again. It’s easy not to get attached to them. I hardly know them. Some of them try to talk to me, try to bond, thinking they have all the time in the world to make friends, but I know better. I know they’ll only be here for a few months at best, so I spend my days with the curtain closed, in my uncomfortable bed, ridden with stray hairs, watching awful movies and staring at the ceiling counting the tiles. There are twenty three and a half of them in my tiny portion of the room. I’ve begun to count the tiny dots in each tile as well; that’s how bored I am.
Well.
That’s how bored I was .
Until she wheeled in with her stupid little book, and changed my miserable life forever.
But more on that later.