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©2006-2009 *LastOnePicked
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Submitted: September 25, 2006
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Submitted: September 25, 2006
Image Size: 60.2 KB
Resolution: 589×811
Comments: 70
Favourites & Collections: 158 [who?]
Views
Total: 3,212
Today: 0
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Artist's Comments
Erm, sketch of The Patient from The Black Parade...? aka blonde Gerard?
Yeah. I redid it from what was in my stolen sketchbook...it's not the same.
editttt: ~saturnangel wrote this, and it really...got to me. So I'm so posting it here in nice and bold letters so everyone can read it too if you don't feel like scrolling through comments.
They called him The Patient.
No one is really sure what his name is save his doctors and the nurses who treated him, I guess--and really, what sort of shitty general nickname is "The Patient" in a place like this? This hospital is full of patients--most of them running out of patience for their diseases and the treatments that are supposed to help cure them. But somehow... It doesn't matter who you’re talking to, or who is talking to you. If you say "The Patient" or if someone else happens to mention "The Patient", people just automatically know.
It isn’t that he’s remarkable in any way. His story is just like everyone else's. The Patient is here because he’s dying. He’s here because there is nothing anyone can do for him anymore. All his doctors are doing now is making sure he's as comfortable as possible, but word is that they're having trouble doing just that. He's already gone through three secular counselors, and he won't even hear of having a religious one.
This, I happened to be witness to one day on my way to visit my friend in her room. He had been angry that day, and as I walked by, he just happened to yell, "And I'll be damned if you think I'll talk to a priest! What's religion gonna do for me that you people can't?!"
Needless to say, it stalled me. Or rather, the security guard I walked right into stalled me as easily as he sent me to the ground, notebooks and pens spilling all over the place. And my rosary...
He had seen me. And he had seen my rosary, the one I always wore hidden under my gloves...
Or maybe he hadn't. Passing him in the hall as I am now, he doesn't seem to notice me.
"Hey."
Cold, thin fingers close tight around my arm--tighter than I'd expect. Startled, I turn and find myself looking not so much into the pale, gaunt face of a sick young man...but rather into a pair of powerful hazel-green eyes.
"Hey," he says again, softly. "You're the girl from the other day... The one who always comes here."
It's not a question or even a comment hinting at interest. It's just an observation. But in the pull of his eyes, I barely hear it. Something about them... He's wise beyond his years. He's been through life, shoved around, kicked, trampled. This...whatever this is...whatever disease he's got... This is nothing. This is slow release.
He lets me go and leans against the wall. For a minute I think he's going to fall...and he does, sinking onto the bench. And at once I see the skinny, frail boy that he is. Not even a young man anymore; he's just a skinny...frail...boy.
I wonder if he gets visitors.
"Why do you come here?" he asks, softly.
"To visit a friend," I say. "She's staying on this floor. Why...why are you here?"
I've said a stupid thing. I know it, he knows it, but he doesn't act smart like he does to the doctors and nurses. He just swallows and stares straight at the opposite wall.
"You come on this floor a lot. You should know. Everyone talks about me. I'm dying."
"Yes, but..." And I know I'm being nosy, but I can't resist. "What are you dying from?"
The Patient looks up at me, and again... His eyes. Those wise eyes...the ones that give only the briefest glimpse to the life he must have lived that got him to this point. I know the answer before he tells me. It's not the disease that's killing him--whatever he's got...whatever the doctors think it is...
"Life," he says. "I'm dying from living."
I
Yeah. I redid it from what was in my stolen sketchbook...it's not the same.
editttt: ~saturnangel wrote this, and it really...got to me. So I'm so posting it here in nice and bold letters so everyone can read it too if you don't feel like scrolling through comments.
They called him The Patient.
No one is really sure what his name is save his doctors and the nurses who treated him, I guess--and really, what sort of shitty general nickname is "The Patient" in a place like this? This hospital is full of patients--most of them running out of patience for their diseases and the treatments that are supposed to help cure them. But somehow... It doesn't matter who you’re talking to, or who is talking to you. If you say "The Patient" or if someone else happens to mention "The Patient", people just automatically know.
It isn’t that he’s remarkable in any way. His story is just like everyone else's. The Patient is here because he’s dying. He’s here because there is nothing anyone can do for him anymore. All his doctors are doing now is making sure he's as comfortable as possible, but word is that they're having trouble doing just that. He's already gone through three secular counselors, and he won't even hear of having a religious one.
This, I happened to be witness to one day on my way to visit my friend in her room. He had been angry that day, and as I walked by, he just happened to yell, "And I'll be damned if you think I'll talk to a priest! What's religion gonna do for me that you people can't?!"
Needless to say, it stalled me. Or rather, the security guard I walked right into stalled me as easily as he sent me to the ground, notebooks and pens spilling all over the place. And my rosary...
He had seen me. And he had seen my rosary, the one I always wore hidden under my gloves...
Or maybe he hadn't. Passing him in the hall as I am now, he doesn't seem to notice me.
"Hey."
Cold, thin fingers close tight around my arm--tighter than I'd expect. Startled, I turn and find myself looking not so much into the pale, gaunt face of a sick young man...but rather into a pair of powerful hazel-green eyes.
"Hey," he says again, softly. "You're the girl from the other day... The one who always comes here."
It's not a question or even a comment hinting at interest. It's just an observation. But in the pull of his eyes, I barely hear it. Something about them... He's wise beyond his years. He's been through life, shoved around, kicked, trampled. This...whatever this is...whatever disease he's got... This is nothing. This is slow release.
He lets me go and leans against the wall. For a minute I think he's going to fall...and he does, sinking onto the bench. And at once I see the skinny, frail boy that he is. Not even a young man anymore; he's just a skinny...frail...boy.
I wonder if he gets visitors.
"Why do you come here?" he asks, softly.
"To visit a friend," I say. "She's staying on this floor. Why...why are you here?"
I've said a stupid thing. I know it, he knows it, but he doesn't act smart like he does to the doctors and nurses. He just swallows and stares straight at the opposite wall.
"You come on this floor a lot. You should know. Everyone talks about me. I'm dying."
"Yes, but..." And I know I'm being nosy, but I can't resist. "What are you dying from?"
The Patient looks up at me, and again... His eyes. Those wise eyes...the ones that give only the briefest glimpse to the life he must have lived that got him to this point. I know the answer before he tells me. It's not the disease that's killing him--whatever he's got...whatever the doctors think it is...
"Life," he says. "I'm dying from living."
I
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 reports, 1d 17h agoDaily Literature Deviations is a group that is dedicated to bringing literature to the forefront of the deviantArt community. We attempt to accomplish this by daily featuring Literature artists from around the community that deserve the recognition, but are not getting it. Each day we will feature 10 deviations from the Literature categories in a News Article. In order to support the artists that we feature, we ask that you  the news article as well as check out the individual pieces. We understand that each day you may not be able to check out each and every one of the pieces, everyone has their own things going on. We just ask that you make an attempt to help support the growing Literature community.58 Around the World - Vol.2*ade135
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reports, 14h 34m agoDaily Literature Deviations is a group that is dedicated to bringing literature to the forefront of the deviantArt community. We attempt to accomplish this by daily featuring Literature artists from around the community that deserve the recognition, but are not getting it. Each day we will feature 10 deviations from the Literature categories in a News Article. In order to support the artists that we feature, we ask that you the news article as well as check out the individual pieces. We understand that each day you may not be able to check out each and every one of the pieces, everyone has their own things going on. We just ask that you make an attempt to help support the growing Literature community. |
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Comments
--
I think 'brisbane tall' would be more appropriate.
--
"Where's the danger in that, Cha-Cha? Where's the adventure?"
looks like he just got needles.
Eep.
--
We hold in our hearts the sword and the faith
Swelled up from the rain, clouds move like a wraith
Well after all, we'll lie another day
And through it all, we'll find some other way
To carry on through cartilage and fluid
--
"Where's the danger in that, Cha-Cha? Where's the adventure?"
--
"Where's the danger in that, Cha-Cha? Where's the adventure?"
Kinda a fuck-you to the anonymity of hospitals where names are only on charts and bracelets.
--
Join THE GLAM PARADE!
[We let you wear more than one colour!]
--
"Where's the danger in that, Cha-Cha? Where's the adventure?"
All this cancerousness reminds me of muh mommy. <2
--
Join THE GLAM PARADE!
[We let you wear more than one colour!]
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