Y: Rhombus finds The Lost

Rhombus finds the lost

Unused to the brilliance of waiting rooms,
Rhombus stopped as he entered
while his pupils slammed shut
making the blue of his eyes
flash in the glare.
rows of plain plastic chairs
held rows of pained plastic people
holding tissues and clothes
to wounds gleaned on this Saturday night:
the visible wounds at least.
In one corner two drunks giggled uncontrollably
watching blood pump from their friend's hand
as he snored beside them.
A woman in her thirties,
sad worn eyes staring at the carpet tiled floor
nursed a mis-shaped arm
as the older man at her side
begged her not to tell
with threats of worse to come
that hissed across the room
to where a policewoman watched them,
loathing and pity fighting for dominance
in her eyes.
Beside her, a youth shivered
despite the blanket wrapped around him
and struggled to stay awake.

The girl with fresh stitches in her face,
her short white top and skirt
stained stop-sign crimson,
stared at herself in a small pocket mirror
and sobbed as she studied the twin blade gash
that had erased her beauty
in one pointless fight
over a boy she would never see again.

Detritus of another weekend night
gathered to patch their woes
while overworked nurses and doctors
in the twelfth hour of their shifts
hurried wearily about
expressions numbed by the nightly passage
of woundings and beatings,
fallings and failings,
that flowed past them
spiralling inevitably towards
the mortuary room.

From the curtained cubicle
along the corridor
cries of pain leaked out
as clothing sealed to burns
was pulled away
ripping at the tender flesh below.
Patient voices asked questions
about drugs and drinks
of insensible victims
who cry and scream
or retreat into a hidden corner
to look out through shattered eyes
at the tattered remains of their world

His brilliant eyes dulled
Rhombus retreats from the ER
knowing there is no help for him there.