bombinate
[bom-buh-neyt]
1. to make a humming or buzzing noise.
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His eyes remained shut.
He didn’t need them to be open to know what was around him. It was the same as every other day. The chill of the heavily air conditioned room
nipped at his skin, just as it always did.
He had learned to ignore that a few weeks after he came to the
room. The bright fluorescent lights
dared him to open his eyes. He refused,
knowing he could keep them shut for a few more minutes. It didn’t matter much anyway. The noise was there.
The
dull, droning hum and whir of the machines.
it wasn’t loud, and most wouldn’t find it all that bad. But it was the only thing that he had not yet
gotten used to. The ever present sound
grated on his nerves, eating away at his mind ever so slowly. It was a race, really. A race to see if he could get used to the
sound or if they drove him mad.
Finally
he opened his eyes. He reached for the
one thing in the room that could drown out the sounds of the machines, even if
it was only temporary. His arm hit one
of the tubes. He stopped reaching. This one was filled with red liquid. He needed that one. He slowly untangled his arm and the slightly
warm tube attached to his side and continued his advance on his one solace.
The
headphones were cold, no surprise there.
They would warm up eventually. He
turned on the sound and the incessant hum of the machines was replaced by Mozart’s
Piano Concerto No. 18. The upbeat music
brought a rare smile to his thin face. He
waved his fingers around and bobbed his head in time with the music. It was temporary measure, but it was all he
had.
He
slowly got out of bed, making sure his limbs didn’t tangle with any of the
tubes attached to his body. He winced with
a sudden pain. One of them had been bent
around a bit in his sleep. He carefully
got up and made his way to the maintenance area to get another attachment. Once it was fixed, he moved on to other
business of the day.
Breakfast
brought no joy like it used to. A grey,
tasteless paste made for him by the machines.
It was nutritious, but that was about it. He sighed.
Not even the music in his ears could cheer him up from that sad
meal.
He got
up and slowly made his way to his only real connection with the outside
world. The computer flicked on. He was glad the music was playing. The computer may have been the only machine
he got some kind of enjoyment from, but the sounds it made still contributed to
that of the others. He needed to work
fast. The Concerto was nearing its end,
and he needed to load up the next one, or be forced to listen to the machines.
He didn’t
make it. The music ended too soon. The headphones muffled the sound, but that
almost made it worse. Now it was like a
gnat flying close to his ear. Just barely
audible, but infuriating none the less.
He ran
his pale hand over his face and down to his thin chest. His palm paused over his heart. Or where it used to be at any rate. He tried to remember what it was like having
a real heart instead of being attached to one.
It was getting harder and harder every day.
He
turned to look at the machine that made his blood flow. A little box with lights and red tubes
floating a bit above the floor. It was
probably his favorite. Or at least the
one that angered him the least. It was
the quietest. The used to think about
the irony of that. One of the few that
was supposed to make noise was the one that made the least.
He
sighed. Another of the machines let out
a particularly loud whir as he did. That
one was the replacement for his lungs. A
taller, rectangle that floated high enough that it was almost against the ceiling. That was the loudest, and so it was his most
hated.
He
shook his head and loaded up another piece of music. No. 20 this time. He listened to the music, blissfully free of
the ever present drone of the machines keeping him alive. It wasn’t enough to make him forget, but it
was something. He started his job,
needed to pay for the horrid machines.
Once
the music ended too soon for his taste.
He leaned back and listened to the machines whir. He felt his eyes glazed over. He cursed his own desire to live. All it meant was that he was tied to the
machines. And to his life giving prison.
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Yeah, this would pretty much suck, wouldn't it? Having many of your vital organs out and needing machines to keep you alive. Yeah, I'm not even sure I could handle that for long.
Very descriptive, sad.
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