The Firm Monthly Promptshot Challenge: June 2010

(September 29, 2010)

Regression.

The Regression of Compassion, or Cold Empty Chairs

"It's regressed."

That's the first thing that comes out of the doctor's mouth. She says it in place of a greeting, almost like she expects that the world will be a brighter and better place and that the common "hello" or "good day" will not suffice. As if she can't wait for another patient to leave so she can get her damn paycheck already, thankyouverymuch.

It's not that she's narcissistic or greedy, but it was so much easier when she was younger and she still had enough compassion to spread around to everybody. She tells herself it's the good news that is the sole reason for her lack of pleasantries; that it's why she skips directly from the "how are you feeling today?" (something she already knows the answer to) to the "it's regressed."

The boy in the bed is silent. He's not sure what to do with this information. His fingers are restless, twisting the light blue fabric underneath into hopeless shapes and lumps. He looks up at her face, eyes blinking slowly as he processes what has been spoken.

She stands his bedside, suddenly feeling smaller and younger again. She wants to take back all the compassion she ever threw out and give them all to this young boy, this one with the deep brown eyes. But why would she do that, if there is no reason for that compassion to be given? Why offer sympathies if illness has regressed?

He licks his lips, his throat suddenly feeling dry. What do I do now? he wonders. What do I do now, now that "it has regressed?" Deciding he should pose these inquiries aloud, he questions the doctor.

She gives him a dry smile, one without compassion. Her compassion has regressed too. He should be happier, she thinks. Why isn't he happier? She wearily sits down on the chair placed by the bed, the pointedly cold empty chair. What is the point of having a chair for no one to sit in? Isn't it just another empty hope? But there chair is there, as always, and she doesn't care as long as she can beat the morning traffic and get home in the next hour.

You have no fever, she tells him. He is listening. You do not need to worry about these medications or these instruments any longer. No more tests, no more needles. He asks what will happen to him, once it has regressed, once he is released. She sighs mentally but physically forces a smile to don her features.

When you're better, you can leave, go back home. Go see your family, yeah? She says it jokingly, but she knows for a fact, with this cold empty chair as evidence, that he won't be going home. She realizes with a start that she won't be getting a paycheck for this. Maybe she'll call it compassion, because for once she isn't doing it so she can get home after her night shift, or for once she isn't doing it to support her two fatherless children at home. Because she won't believe that her compassion has regressed.

She expects a happy expression, or a slightly bewildered one, just like she expected to see those same feelings reflected in those deep brown eyes when she first stepped in and fake-compassionately informed, "it's regressed." Instead she is given a flicker of sadness, of a desolate loss, of a hope gone, of a cold empty chair.

They share the silence together, and she wonders how this boy with the deep brown eyes became so lonely. Had he, like her, thrown all her compassion away to the wrong people? Was he the kind to look after the two children, or would he be the one to leave? Did he never learn compassion, or see it? Or did he have too much to give, and let people walk all over him?

A thousand thoughts race through his head, all clambering and climbing over one another, shouting and shoving and crying and wailing to get his attention. Who will keep you safe now? one screams. Where are you going this time? No more ten-minute meals, no more warm chairs! another sobs hysterically.

Other thoughts are so jumbled that they start to mix together in a mess of pandemonium and disorder. They don't make sense. Are you leaving? Who will look after the children? Where has your compassion gone? Who will sit in the chair? Are you regressing?

He looks into the doctor's eyes, realizing the thoughts in his head screaming about the children and cold empty chairs and compassion are all reflected in her eyes. He gives her the subtlest nod, and she blinks and the thoughts are gone.

"It's regressed," he mumbles, mostly to himself. He's still sick, but it won't be bad now. He won't have to hide in other people's compassion. He will not leave the children, but he can not stay either. They are not his burden to bear, they are someone else's who decided to take his compassion and step all over him. Now he has someone to warm the chair, even if it's for the shortest moment imaginable.

The illness regressed, but the compassion has not.

Interpret this as you please, but this life is all a metaphor.

[Think before you comment.]

A/N: This was written in September, as I've never gotten back into my writing mood. The Firm hasn't updated their prompts since June, so I decided to post a super-late (understatement) promptshot response. Also, this is non beta'd, and will probably never be beta'd. I'm also procrastinating on my Biology homework due tomorrow, so I was really just typing this mindlessly. Excuse any fluency errors. Plus, I'm not comfortable with the word "regressed," so have mercy.

To my loyal readers: I'm sorry for the excruciatingly long hiatus, but I've been feeling restless and uneasy lately.

To my friendly (and not so friendly) commenters: Please refrain from commenting on my unnecessarily long author's note. Worry yourself in only responding to the promptshot or give your own interpretation. I'm interested in hearing about it. Constructive criticism is like eggplant - tastes like shit but good for you.

Thank you.