the-raggedy-angel:

if god is feeling generous - improvised monologue [dean winchester]

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The drugs are paralytic. The patient is grateful for them. They soothe out his screaming whirling mind for a while to let him rest, and they make him tired, blur the world at the edges. It’s like sleeping without dreams.

The patient’s heavy eyes stare at a point on the white wall and a pleasant numbness calms his bones, and the man in the chair beside him begins to talk.

He can hear with perfect clarity, but it is difficult to understand. The man has green eyes and he has been here for days now, leaving only to visit another room somewhere in this place, always coming back. He talks a lot and sometimes the things the man says to him make the patient cry, although he doesn’t know why. His eyes sting and burn and the tears roll like rain down his face, but he doesn’t know why.

Today the man with the green eyes is saying that he is sorry.

He gets angry—at himself—and he lets his face drop into his hands. He begs the patient to remember, and the patient feels sadness behind his ribs like a sharp fingernail.

He is too numb to move his head but if he could, he would look at the man with the green eyes, and he would try to remember. He would try his very best, and try until he got it right. It seems like the kind of thing he would do.

You used to be so big and bright and terrible, the man’s green eyes are saying, as the patient stares long and heavy at the wall. I need you back.

When he has finished talking the man gets up, angry, bitter, and leaves him. The patient knows that the green-eyed man is crying.

He stares at the wall. The wall never changes. He feels tears rising to his eyes and he doesn’t know why, never knows why.

I’m sorry, the patient thinks. I wish I could give him back to you, this big and bright and terrible creature. I wish I could remember.

He stares. And he fights back the haze of the drugs, there in his wheelchair in his little white room.

And he begins to try.

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