Danny G (danny_g) wrote in oblivionrp, @ 2009-04-08 21:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | dan |
Just one of those days...
Who: Dan
When: Way too early (4ish or 5ish?)
Where: His room and then, unfortunately, not his room
Dan woke up suddenly. At first he thought the ship was tossing again, but due to the lack of screams and the fact that he wasn't sprawled on his floor being crushed by his own overturned desk, he deduced that he'd just been woken up by some random dream. Dan never remembered his dreams anyway, but this time it bothered him for some reason. As if the dream had been trying to give him some answers and he hadn't been paying attention.
Christ, he was getting weird. He was even starting to think differently. It was cabin fever. Literal cabin fever, since he was almost always in his room (wasn't that called a cabin in boat-talk?) or at work. If he went back home to the city with his mind worrying about nonsense little dreams like the hobos that sat with their tinfoil hats muttering about aliens... He threw off his covers and sat up, momentarily forgetting that he'd bruised a rib or two yesterday, during the storm or whatever they were calling it.
“Owww,” Dan looked down. It was only slightly swollen, not as bad as he'd thought when he had gone to bed last night. It was just the colors that were disturbing him now. Last night it was red, but today his torso was splotched in an ugly black and blue. He knew that was the normal course of a bruise, but that didn't mean he liked to look at it. He gingerly threw on a t-shirt and his new, but already well-worn, pair of khakis that he needed for work. The green numbers on his alarm clock told him that even the alarm wasn't set to wake up for another three hours. His shift at the coffee place didn't start for another three hours and ten minutes. Why the hell was he awake so early?
Dan opened the door of his room and stuck his bedhead out into the hallway. It was deserted, as he expected it would be before the sun was even up. Mentally grumbling about the lucky bastards who were still blissfully asleep, he walked out wondering where he might possibly be able to get a bag of ice for his ribs at this godforsaken hour. As he started for the elevators, he heard the slow and gentle squeak of his room door starting to close itself behind him. Then suddenly, something occurred to him.
“FUCK!” he yelped so loudly that it echoed down the long, empty hallway. Not even thinking about how many people he just woke up, or the fact that now his ribs were burning like hell again, he darted for his room. It seemed like slow motion when he finally reached his door, just as it clicked shut in his face. His voice was still echoing at that point, and the hallway yelling “fuck” back at him repeatedly wasn't helping his mood. Now his ribs ached something awful, there were going to be some disgruntled customers up at Cyamites grumbling about being woken up early by some kid cursing on the B deck, and he was locked out of his goddamn room.
Dan was thoroughly pissed off and he was starting to wheeze, so he patted around in his pockets until he found found his trusty blue albuterol inhaler. It was a good thing he was such a slob that he'd worn these pants yesterday and left the inhaler in there. He leaned back on his traitorous room door and took two puffs. Immediately, he felt his air passages widen, his chest expand, and the fucking ribs that he kept forgetting about sting mercilessly. Just out of curiosity, he held it up to see the dose counter. 192 left. When they'd set sail on the 26th, he was at 200. On December 31st, he was still at 200 because of the insanely clean air and furniture of the ship that contrasted so strongly with his beloved air pollution in New York City. In just under twenty four hours, he'd needed his inhaler four times. At this rate, was it even going to last the whole trip? He hoped they hit land soon.
Angry, Dan hit his door with his fist and started toward the elevators to find some ice for his ribs and his now aching knuckles.