The fluorescent lights of the emergency department are harsh. Everything is so bright and white... a lot like the place Dal just came from. One dangerous, sterile place for another. Here, Dal can breathe. Every breath feels like razors in his throat, like he's trying to gasp at air around a brick. Or around a lungful of water.
His hair is still wet, still dripping occasionally down his pale face. He's in a hospital gown and one of those warming blankets, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. Doctors, nurses, police all coming and going. All asking questions his addled mind could barely understand. His head hurt, a dull throb just behind his eyes.
Someone told him a social worker would be by. He's met a few of them before out on the street. They come out to the meat market a lot. They're at the shelters a lot. Trying to get the homeless kids and the sex workers off the street. There are times when his very limited English comes in handy. He can pretend he doesn't understand. Just like he does with the cops and nurses and the doctors.
Hospitals are dangerous for a guy without papers. Dal never comes to them unless he actually thinks he's dying. He didn't come here on his own. He was brought here after... After some lunatic who's been hunting hookers tried to drown him. That's why his chest burns and his throat aches. Now that he's not in any immediate danger, they're gathering evidence off him. Swabbing his mouth, scraping under his ragged nails... ragged from scratching desperately at the side of a bathtub.
He's got that thousand yard stare when the social worker walks in. Whatever he's saying. Dal doesn't hear it at first. Please repeat yourself, social worker.
cw: mentions of attempted murder and implied sexual assault
His hair is still wet, still dripping occasionally down his pale face. He's in a hospital gown and one of those warming blankets, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. Doctors, nurses, police all coming and going. All asking questions his addled mind could barely understand. His head hurt, a dull throb just behind his eyes.
Someone told him a social worker would be by. He's met a few of them before out on the street. They come out to the meat market a lot. They're at the shelters a lot. Trying to get the homeless kids and the sex workers off the street. There are times when his very limited English comes in handy. He can pretend he doesn't understand. Just like he does with the cops and nurses and the doctors.
Hospitals are dangerous for a guy without papers. Dal never comes to them unless he actually thinks he's dying. He didn't come here on his own. He was brought here after... After some lunatic who's been hunting hookers tried to drown him. That's why his chest burns and his throat aches. Now that he's not in any immediate danger, they're gathering evidence off him. Swabbing his mouth, scraping under his ragged nails... ragged from scratching desperately at the side of a bathtub.
He's got that thousand yard stare when the social worker walks in. Whatever he's saying. Dal doesn't hear it at first. Please repeat yourself, social worker.