Outbreak: The Hunger Read Online Free
to deteriorate, my doctor said it was time for ‘the procedure.’ All forms of light began hurting my eyes and my vision was really poor, but why is the doctor waking me up? He’s still working on me. That sadistic mother fucker. Or maybe he’s just a really bad doctor.
I try to talk but my tongue is too thick from the anesthesia. My heart beats even faster. I can hear it on the monitor.
“Just relax, John,” the doctor finally tells me. “I need to bring you back to consciousness in order to get the stitches in your eye. You won’t feel any pain, but I need you to move your eye when I tell you to. Do you understand me?”
I groan out an affirmation and start to relax. For the next hour, I move my eyeball in whichever direction the doctor tells me as he stitches in my new cornea. He could have warned me about this part of the surgery. It’s a very odd sensation to see stitches being put into your own eyeball. I wonder if this is the kind of shit Lucio Fulci dreamed about. I start to relax but my hands still grip the bed sheets tightly, just waiting to feel the searing pain of a needle being pushed into my eyeball.
When it’s finally over, they send me on my way, hopped up on Vicodin, with my wife pushing me out of the hospital in a wheelchair. My eye is bandaged and throbbing. I still can’t talk due to the anesthesia hangover. I want to tell Sarah how I was awake when they put in the stitches. It’s kind of a macho story that I’m sure I’ll be telling anyone who will listen to me. I’ve always been worried that people look at me and see a man who always plays it safe. Growing up, I was afraid of heights, hated roller coasters, and preferred team sports where I could rely on other people to carry the team. I was always unsure of myself and within the past 4-5 years, I began to wonder if I had what it took to be heroic, whatever the hell that is. If the chips were down and something bad was happening, would I freeze up like a deer in headlights, or would I take control and give in to the adrenaline and prove myself to be a Man? I don’t know. Getting my eye operated on while conscious seemed pretty cool, but then again, I had no choice in the matter. The doctor just woke my ass up and told me what to do. Hhmmm. Do I have what it takes to be a hero? If the events ever presented themselves, would I be able to stand up and be brave? I don’t know. I like to think I have the balls, but being honest with myself, I just don’t know.
That’s one of the reasons I went into cooking. It’s one of the most macho professions I could think of where I had a chance to prove myself. You work under tremendous pressure, its hot as hell on the line, you’re dealing with smoking hot pans and extremely sharp knives, and sometimes it’s just two of you on the line trying to keep up with the orders. If you go down, you look and feel like a huge pussy. If you keep up and dominate the line, you feel like a conquering barbarian. I’ve felt both ways.
I get home and Sarah puts me to bed. Most nights I try not to dream. I guess it’s really not my choice whether I dream or not, but I at least try to guide my dreams in a certain direction. I focus my mind on one thought and try to put that into my subconscious, but with all the Vicodin, I can’t focus on anything. So I began to drift off, unfocused and vulnerable.
1980 – Philadelphia, PA
“Come on, John. Pass it to me. Stop being such a fucking hog,” says Dave.
I still get shocked when someone uses the “F” word. Just the other weekend, my dad took Dave, my brother, and I to a drive-in to see the movie The Boys in Company C . That was the first movie where we all heard the word “fuck” being used in everyday conversation. Even my dad was getting a little uncomfortable with the amount of “F-bombs” that movie dropped. After that, “fuck” was Dave’s favorite new
I try to talk but my tongue is too thick from the anesthesia. My heart beats even faster. I can hear it on the monitor.
“Just relax, John,” the doctor finally tells me. “I need to bring you back to consciousness in order to get the stitches in your eye. You won’t feel any pain, but I need you to move your eye when I tell you to. Do you understand me?”
I groan out an affirmation and start to relax. For the next hour, I move my eyeball in whichever direction the doctor tells me as he stitches in my new cornea. He could have warned me about this part of the surgery. It’s a very odd sensation to see stitches being put into your own eyeball. I wonder if this is the kind of shit Lucio Fulci dreamed about. I start to relax but my hands still grip the bed sheets tightly, just waiting to feel the searing pain of a needle being pushed into my eyeball.
When it’s finally over, they send me on my way, hopped up on Vicodin, with my wife pushing me out of the hospital in a wheelchair. My eye is bandaged and throbbing. I still can’t talk due to the anesthesia hangover. I want to tell Sarah how I was awake when they put in the stitches. It’s kind of a macho story that I’m sure I’ll be telling anyone who will listen to me. I’ve always been worried that people look at me and see a man who always plays it safe. Growing up, I was afraid of heights, hated roller coasters, and preferred team sports where I could rely on other people to carry the team. I was always unsure of myself and within the past 4-5 years, I began to wonder if I had what it took to be heroic, whatever the hell that is. If the chips were down and something bad was happening, would I freeze up like a deer in headlights, or would I take control and give in to the adrenaline and prove myself to be a Man? I don’t know. Getting my eye operated on while conscious seemed pretty cool, but then again, I had no choice in the matter. The doctor just woke my ass up and told me what to do. Hhmmm. Do I have what it takes to be a hero? If the events ever presented themselves, would I be able to stand up and be brave? I don’t know. I like to think I have the balls, but being honest with myself, I just don’t know.
That’s one of the reasons I went into cooking. It’s one of the most macho professions I could think of where I had a chance to prove myself. You work under tremendous pressure, its hot as hell on the line, you’re dealing with smoking hot pans and extremely sharp knives, and sometimes it’s just two of you on the line trying to keep up with the orders. If you go down, you look and feel like a huge pussy. If you keep up and dominate the line, you feel like a conquering barbarian. I’ve felt both ways.
I get home and Sarah puts me to bed. Most nights I try not to dream. I guess it’s really not my choice whether I dream or not, but I at least try to guide my dreams in a certain direction. I focus my mind on one thought and try to put that into my subconscious, but with all the Vicodin, I can’t focus on anything. So I began to drift off, unfocused and vulnerable.
1980 – Philadelphia, PA
“Come on, John. Pass it to me. Stop being such a fucking hog,” says Dave.
I still get shocked when someone uses the “F” word. Just the other weekend, my dad took Dave, my brother, and I to a drive-in to see the movie The Boys in Company C . That was the first movie where we all heard the word “fuck” being used in everyday conversation. Even my dad was getting a little uncomfortable with the amount of “F-bombs” that movie dropped. After that, “fuck” was Dave’s favorite new
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