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If Brian was right about one thing, it was his assessment of how Jane would take the news of his illness. How badly she would take it though, he couldn’t have anticipated.
“What on Christ’s throne are you on about?” she shouted at him “You’re not dying, you plank, you’re bloody drunk!”
“Jane, please…” he moaned. She was right about one thing, the vodka he had drunk – how much to do this to him? – was still holding it’s influence over him, his head was still pounding, and he felt like throwing up again, if only because he stunk of lying in his own vomit for god knows how long. “Please, this is very important…”
“It’d better be!” She interrupted. It’s a skill, he thought, that she can inject something while you’re trying to explain to ruffle you, and make you sound even less coherent than you are already. He didn’t need this crap now.
“Shut up and listen!” He half shouted back, which was enough to stop her in her tracks, “You might want to sit down” he gestured toward the leather chair, a little calmer now, but winced as he noticed the empty vodka bottle standing on the table beside it. Jane took the seat anyway, taking no notice of the empty bottle. Probably because she had seen it already while he had been lying on his face breathing his own puke for air.
“I went to see Dogra about my… my illness today.” The symptoms of which were not aided a great deal by the amount of alcohol he had ingested; he felt like crap. But regardless of how he felt, he knew he had to continue. He could hardly sleep off his hangover now. “Apparently, what I have is more serious than a cold.” This wasn’t easy. How could he say this? He felt sorry for Jane already, and she wasn’t even crying yet.
“So, what have you got then? Has he given you a sick note?” Obviously, Jane hadn’t yet grasped the severity of the situation.
“Well, no, but I’m going to see him again tomorrow, but that’s neither here nor there. Just please, listen.” The art of interruption worked wonders. It was impossible to hold a line of thought while Jane continued to impose meaningless rant in the middle of his confession. “Dogra says I have something very serious. I can’t stress enough when I say “serious”, Jane.”
“Let me guess” Jane interjected once again, “You’ve got cancer and you’re going to die?”
Brian’s blood ran cold. Obviously, she was just being sarcastic, but the way it came out of her mouth sounded like she actually knew. Like she knew and was laughing at him. He stared at her in horror for a moment before he gained the courage to continue.
“That’s not funny Jane.” He managed.
“Why not?” she replied tartly
“Because…” Sod it. Just tell her! “Because I DO have cancer, Jane. I have a cancer that they can’t fix, and I’m going to die.” There, he had said it. But something wasn’t right. She didn’t believe him. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! He could see it in her face; she was staring blankly at him, waiting for him to laugh and say ‘gotcha!’
After a moment, Jane sighed loudly. Brian was about to re-iterate himself when she spoke ahead of him, “That is NOT funny, Brian.” She spat ‘Brian’ at him like an insult.
“It’s not a joke, Jane…” He began, but she wasn’t finished, and interrupted him yet again.
“I’m your wife, and I’m carrying your child.” Her voice began to gain volume and temper with each word “I am not in a condition where I need to be fed utter tripe like that just so you can try to excuse your way…” she paused for breath, and now each word was pronounced like a lethal venom. “out of your utter stupidity in getting wasted for no reason in front of the TV and PASSING OUT ON THE FLOOR IN A PILE OF YOUR OWN SICK!”
“Jane…” He began, but couldn’t finish. Suddenly none of it was clear. He was still drunk, that was for certain. But he had been told he had cancer. Hadn’t he? He hadn’t dreamed that as well. But for some reason he couldn’t tell for sure now. The whole day seemed blurry, and his eyes filled with tears. What the hell was going on?
“Jane, I’m so sorry.” He blubbed out, not really knowing why, or what he was sorry for.
“Clean this bloody mess up. I don’t want to see your face until this room is back to normal.”
Well, that was that then. If all this had been a dream, then he didn’t have an appointment to see Dogra again tomorrow, but he made up his mind then and there that he would go in and see him anyway. Appointment or not. He needed to know if he’s been dreaming his cancer diagnosis, and if so, what he had really been told instead. Brian, usually so sure of everything around him, now found himself not knowing what was happening at all and he didn’t like it in the slightest.
Jane got up and left the room without another word, closing the door behind her like a final judgement and leaving Brian to clean up a mess he couldn’t remember having made. He distantly heard Jane stalking up the stairs, obviously quite shaken by what Brian had tried to tell her. He waited until she had reached the top of the stairs, and gone, presumably, to the bedroom or bathroom, and then went off to the kitchen to find something he could use to clean up the vomit all over the lounge floor.
In the kitchen, he took a moment to take his shirt off, which was covered in sick and left it on the floor by the washing machine. Hardly the best place to put it, but he had to think about the lounge carpet, before it was irrevocably stained or otherwise ruined. Scrubbing away on the puke sodden carpet, Brian again began to wonder what exactly had happened to him today. Was he going to die? Had he even been to see Dogra? Had he gone, but already been drinking, and been abusive to the good Doctor?
Whatever the truth was, it evaded him now. He wasn’t likely to know much about anything until he saw Dogra tomorrow. But another thought that occurred to him, if all that had happened and had been a dream. The cancer, the morbid and irrevocable death sentence, the cave, the rats, being eaten alive. What on God’s green Earth was going through his subconscious to be bringing such visions to the fore? Perhaps it was just the alcohol. The Vodka had sentenced him to a death he couldn’t avoid, and terrorised him by envisioning another, more gruesome death. It had then disillusioned him into upsetting his wife.
If vodka was the cause of this mess, he wouldn’t be drinking any more of it in the near future, that was for sure.
“What on Christ’s throne are you on about?” she shouted at him “You’re not dying, you plank, you’re bloody drunk!”
“Jane, please…” he moaned. She was right about one thing, the vodka he had drunk – how much to do this to him? – was still holding it’s influence over him, his head was still pounding, and he felt like throwing up again, if only because he stunk of lying in his own vomit for god knows how long. “Please, this is very important…”
“It’d better be!” She interrupted. It’s a skill, he thought, that she can inject something while you’re trying to explain to ruffle you, and make you sound even less coherent than you are already. He didn’t need this crap now.
“Shut up and listen!” He half shouted back, which was enough to stop her in her tracks, “You might want to sit down” he gestured toward the leather chair, a little calmer now, but winced as he noticed the empty vodka bottle standing on the table beside it. Jane took the seat anyway, taking no notice of the empty bottle. Probably because she had seen it already while he had been lying on his face breathing his own puke for air.
“I went to see Dogra about my… my illness today.” The symptoms of which were not aided a great deal by the amount of alcohol he had ingested; he felt like crap. But regardless of how he felt, he knew he had to continue. He could hardly sleep off his hangover now. “Apparently, what I have is more serious than a cold.” This wasn’t easy. How could he say this? He felt sorry for Jane already, and she wasn’t even crying yet.
“So, what have you got then? Has he given you a sick note?” Obviously, Jane hadn’t yet grasped the severity of the situation.
“Well, no, but I’m going to see him again tomorrow, but that’s neither here nor there. Just please, listen.” The art of interruption worked wonders. It was impossible to hold a line of thought while Jane continued to impose meaningless rant in the middle of his confession. “Dogra says I have something very serious. I can’t stress enough when I say “serious”, Jane.”
“Let me guess” Jane interjected once again, “You’ve got cancer and you’re going to die?”
Brian’s blood ran cold. Obviously, she was just being sarcastic, but the way it came out of her mouth sounded like she actually knew. Like she knew and was laughing at him. He stared at her in horror for a moment before he gained the courage to continue.
“That’s not funny Jane.” He managed.
“Why not?” she replied tartly
“Because…” Sod it. Just tell her! “Because I DO have cancer, Jane. I have a cancer that they can’t fix, and I’m going to die.” There, he had said it. But something wasn’t right. She didn’t believe him. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! He could see it in her face; she was staring blankly at him, waiting for him to laugh and say ‘gotcha!’
After a moment, Jane sighed loudly. Brian was about to re-iterate himself when she spoke ahead of him, “That is NOT funny, Brian.” She spat ‘Brian’ at him like an insult.
“It’s not a joke, Jane…” He began, but she wasn’t finished, and interrupted him yet again.
“I’m your wife, and I’m carrying your child.” Her voice began to gain volume and temper with each word “I am not in a condition where I need to be fed utter tripe like that just so you can try to excuse your way…” she paused for breath, and now each word was pronounced like a lethal venom. “out of your utter stupidity in getting wasted for no reason in front of the TV and PASSING OUT ON THE FLOOR IN A PILE OF YOUR OWN SICK!”
“Jane…” He began, but couldn’t finish. Suddenly none of it was clear. He was still drunk, that was for certain. But he had been told he had cancer. Hadn’t he? He hadn’t dreamed that as well. But for some reason he couldn’t tell for sure now. The whole day seemed blurry, and his eyes filled with tears. What the hell was going on?
“Jane, I’m so sorry.” He blubbed out, not really knowing why, or what he was sorry for.
“Clean this bloody mess up. I don’t want to see your face until this room is back to normal.”
Well, that was that then. If all this had been a dream, then he didn’t have an appointment to see Dogra again tomorrow, but he made up his mind then and there that he would go in and see him anyway. Appointment or not. He needed to know if he’s been dreaming his cancer diagnosis, and if so, what he had really been told instead. Brian, usually so sure of everything around him, now found himself not knowing what was happening at all and he didn’t like it in the slightest.
Jane got up and left the room without another word, closing the door behind her like a final judgement and leaving Brian to clean up a mess he couldn’t remember having made. He distantly heard Jane stalking up the stairs, obviously quite shaken by what Brian had tried to tell her. He waited until she had reached the top of the stairs, and gone, presumably, to the bedroom or bathroom, and then went off to the kitchen to find something he could use to clean up the vomit all over the lounge floor.
In the kitchen, he took a moment to take his shirt off, which was covered in sick and left it on the floor by the washing machine. Hardly the best place to put it, but he had to think about the lounge carpet, before it was irrevocably stained or otherwise ruined. Scrubbing away on the puke sodden carpet, Brian again began to wonder what exactly had happened to him today. Was he going to die? Had he even been to see Dogra? Had he gone, but already been drinking, and been abusive to the good Doctor?
Whatever the truth was, it evaded him now. He wasn’t likely to know much about anything until he saw Dogra tomorrow. But another thought that occurred to him, if all that had happened and had been a dream. The cancer, the morbid and irrevocable death sentence, the cave, the rats, being eaten alive. What on God’s green Earth was going through his subconscious to be bringing such visions to the fore? Perhaps it was just the alcohol. The Vodka had sentenced him to a death he couldn’t avoid, and terrorised him by envisioning another, more gruesome death. It had then disillusioned him into upsetting his wife.
If vodka was the cause of this mess, he wouldn’t be drinking any more of it in the near future, that was for sure.
calum chapman wy ban m wrote:
> Have you got links to the first 2 parts?
Try clicking on the "view older topics" links in this forum.
Half Life - Part 2 is one page back
Half Life - Part 1 is two pages back
> Have you got links to the first 2 parts?
Try clicking on the "view older topics" links in this forum.
Half Life - Part 2 is one page back
Half Life - Part 1 is two pages back
Have you got links to the first 2 parts?
I started reading but stopped because I haven't read the first 2.
I started reading but stopped because I haven't read the first 2.
If Brian was right about one thing, it was his assessment of how Jane would take the news of his illness. How badly she would take it though, he couldn’t have anticipated.
“What on Christ’s throne are you on about?” she shouted at him “You’re not dying, you plank, you’re bloody drunk!”
“Jane, please…” he moaned. She was right about one thing, the vodka he had drunk – how much to do this to him? – was still holding it’s influence over him, his head was still pounding, and he felt like throwing up again, if only because he stunk of lying in his own vomit for god knows how long. “Please, this is very important…”
“It’d better be!” She interrupted. It’s a skill, he thought, that she can inject something while you’re trying to explain to ruffle you, and make you sound even less coherent than you are already. He didn’t need this crap now.
“Shut up and listen!” He half shouted back, which was enough to stop her in her tracks, “You might want to sit down” he gestured toward the leather chair, a little calmer now, but winced as he noticed the empty vodka bottle standing on the table beside it. Jane took the seat anyway, taking no notice of the empty bottle. Probably because she had seen it already while he had been lying on his face breathing his own puke for air.
“I went to see Dogra about my… my illness today.” The symptoms of which were not aided a great deal by the amount of alcohol he had ingested; he felt like crap. But regardless of how he felt, he knew he had to continue. He could hardly sleep off his hangover now. “Apparently, what I have is more serious than a cold.” This wasn’t easy. How could he say this? He felt sorry for Jane already, and she wasn’t even crying yet.
“So, what have you got then? Has he given you a sick note?” Obviously, Jane hadn’t yet grasped the severity of the situation.
“Well, no, but I’m going to see him again tomorrow, but that’s neither here nor there. Just please, listen.” The art of interruption worked wonders. It was impossible to hold a line of thought while Jane continued to impose meaningless rant in the middle of his confession. “Dogra says I have something very serious. I can’t stress enough when I say “serious”, Jane.”
“Let me guess” Jane interjected once again, “You’ve got cancer and you’re going to die?”
Brian’s blood ran cold. Obviously, she was just being sarcastic, but the way it came out of her mouth sounded like she actually knew. Like she knew and was laughing at him. He stared at her in horror for a moment before he gained the courage to continue.
“That’s not funny Jane.” He managed.
“Why not?” she replied tartly
“Because…” Sod it. Just tell her! “Because I DO have cancer, Jane. I have a cancer that they can’t fix, and I’m going to die.” There, he had said it. But something wasn’t right. She didn’t believe him. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! He could see it in her face; she was staring blankly at him, waiting for him to laugh and say ‘gotcha!’
After a moment, Jane sighed loudly. Brian was about to re-iterate himself when she spoke ahead of him, “That is NOT funny, Brian.” She spat ‘Brian’ at him like an insult.
“It’s not a joke, Jane…” He began, but she wasn’t finished, and interrupted him yet again.
“I’m your wife, and I’m carrying your child.” Her voice began to gain volume and temper with each word “I am not in a condition where I need to be fed utter tripe like that just so you can try to excuse your way…” she paused for breath, and now each word was pronounced like a lethal venom. “out of your utter stupidity in getting wasted for no reason in front of the TV and PASSING OUT ON THE FLOOR IN A PILE OF YOUR OWN SICK!”
“Jane…” He began, but couldn’t finish. Suddenly none of it was clear. He was still drunk, that was for certain. But he had been told he had cancer. Hadn’t he? He hadn’t dreamed that as well. But for some reason he couldn’t tell for sure now. The whole day seemed blurry, and his eyes filled with tears. What the hell was going on?
“Jane, I’m so sorry.” He blubbed out, not really knowing why, or what he was sorry for.
“Clean this bloody mess up. I don’t want to see your face until this room is back to normal.”
Well, that was that then. If all this had been a dream, then he didn’t have an appointment to see Dogra again tomorrow, but he made up his mind then and there that he would go in and see him anyway. Appointment or not. He needed to know if he’s been dreaming his cancer diagnosis, and if so, what he had really been told instead. Brian, usually so sure of everything around him, now found himself not knowing what was happening at all and he didn’t like it in the slightest.
Jane got up and left the room without another word, closing the door behind her like a final judgement and leaving Brian to clean up a mess he couldn’t remember having made. He distantly heard Jane stalking up the stairs, obviously quite shaken by what Brian had tried to tell her. He waited until she had reached the top of the stairs, and gone, presumably, to the bedroom or bathroom, and then went off to the kitchen to find something he could use to clean up the vomit all over the lounge floor.
In the kitchen, he took a moment to take his shirt off, which was covered in sick and left it on the floor by the washing machine. Hardly the best place to put it, but he had to think about the lounge carpet, before it was irrevocably stained or otherwise ruined. Scrubbing away on the puke sodden carpet, Brian again began to wonder what exactly had happened to him today. Was he going to die? Had he even been to see Dogra? Had he gone, but already been drinking, and been abusive to the good Doctor?
Whatever the truth was, it evaded him now. He wasn’t likely to know much about anything until he saw Dogra tomorrow. But another thought that occurred to him, if all that had happened and had been a dream. The cancer, the morbid and irrevocable death sentence, the cave, the rats, being eaten alive. What on God’s green Earth was going through his subconscious to be bringing such visions to the fore? Perhaps it was just the alcohol. The Vodka had sentenced him to a death he couldn’t avoid, and terrorised him by envisioning another, more gruesome death. It had then disillusioned him into upsetting his wife.
If vodka was the cause of this mess, he wouldn’t be drinking any more of it in the near future, that was for sure.
“What on Christ’s throne are you on about?” she shouted at him “You’re not dying, you plank, you’re bloody drunk!”
“Jane, please…” he moaned. She was right about one thing, the vodka he had drunk – how much to do this to him? – was still holding it’s influence over him, his head was still pounding, and he felt like throwing up again, if only because he stunk of lying in his own vomit for god knows how long. “Please, this is very important…”
“It’d better be!” She interrupted. It’s a skill, he thought, that she can inject something while you’re trying to explain to ruffle you, and make you sound even less coherent than you are already. He didn’t need this crap now.
“Shut up and listen!” He half shouted back, which was enough to stop her in her tracks, “You might want to sit down” he gestured toward the leather chair, a little calmer now, but winced as he noticed the empty vodka bottle standing on the table beside it. Jane took the seat anyway, taking no notice of the empty bottle. Probably because she had seen it already while he had been lying on his face breathing his own puke for air.
“I went to see Dogra about my… my illness today.” The symptoms of which were not aided a great deal by the amount of alcohol he had ingested; he felt like crap. But regardless of how he felt, he knew he had to continue. He could hardly sleep off his hangover now. “Apparently, what I have is more serious than a cold.” This wasn’t easy. How could he say this? He felt sorry for Jane already, and she wasn’t even crying yet.
“So, what have you got then? Has he given you a sick note?” Obviously, Jane hadn’t yet grasped the severity of the situation.
“Well, no, but I’m going to see him again tomorrow, but that’s neither here nor there. Just please, listen.” The art of interruption worked wonders. It was impossible to hold a line of thought while Jane continued to impose meaningless rant in the middle of his confession. “Dogra says I have something very serious. I can’t stress enough when I say “serious”, Jane.”
“Let me guess” Jane interjected once again, “You’ve got cancer and you’re going to die?”
Brian’s blood ran cold. Obviously, she was just being sarcastic, but the way it came out of her mouth sounded like she actually knew. Like she knew and was laughing at him. He stared at her in horror for a moment before he gained the courage to continue.
“That’s not funny Jane.” He managed.
“Why not?” she replied tartly
“Because…” Sod it. Just tell her! “Because I DO have cancer, Jane. I have a cancer that they can’t fix, and I’m going to die.” There, he had said it. But something wasn’t right. She didn’t believe him. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! He could see it in her face; she was staring blankly at him, waiting for him to laugh and say ‘gotcha!’
After a moment, Jane sighed loudly. Brian was about to re-iterate himself when she spoke ahead of him, “That is NOT funny, Brian.” She spat ‘Brian’ at him like an insult.
“It’s not a joke, Jane…” He began, but she wasn’t finished, and interrupted him yet again.
“I’m your wife, and I’m carrying your child.” Her voice began to gain volume and temper with each word “I am not in a condition where I need to be fed utter tripe like that just so you can try to excuse your way…” she paused for breath, and now each word was pronounced like a lethal venom. “out of your utter stupidity in getting wasted for no reason in front of the TV and PASSING OUT ON THE FLOOR IN A PILE OF YOUR OWN SICK!”
“Jane…” He began, but couldn’t finish. Suddenly none of it was clear. He was still drunk, that was for certain. But he had been told he had cancer. Hadn’t he? He hadn’t dreamed that as well. But for some reason he couldn’t tell for sure now. The whole day seemed blurry, and his eyes filled with tears. What the hell was going on?
“Jane, I’m so sorry.” He blubbed out, not really knowing why, or what he was sorry for.
“Clean this bloody mess up. I don’t want to see your face until this room is back to normal.”
Well, that was that then. If all this had been a dream, then he didn’t have an appointment to see Dogra again tomorrow, but he made up his mind then and there that he would go in and see him anyway. Appointment or not. He needed to know if he’s been dreaming his cancer diagnosis, and if so, what he had really been told instead. Brian, usually so sure of everything around him, now found himself not knowing what was happening at all and he didn’t like it in the slightest.
Jane got up and left the room without another word, closing the door behind her like a final judgement and leaving Brian to clean up a mess he couldn’t remember having made. He distantly heard Jane stalking up the stairs, obviously quite shaken by what Brian had tried to tell her. He waited until she had reached the top of the stairs, and gone, presumably, to the bedroom or bathroom, and then went off to the kitchen to find something he could use to clean up the vomit all over the lounge floor.
In the kitchen, he took a moment to take his shirt off, which was covered in sick and left it on the floor by the washing machine. Hardly the best place to put it, but he had to think about the lounge carpet, before it was irrevocably stained or otherwise ruined. Scrubbing away on the puke sodden carpet, Brian again began to wonder what exactly had happened to him today. Was he going to die? Had he even been to see Dogra? Had he gone, but already been drinking, and been abusive to the good Doctor?
Whatever the truth was, it evaded him now. He wasn’t likely to know much about anything until he saw Dogra tomorrow. But another thought that occurred to him, if all that had happened and had been a dream. The cancer, the morbid and irrevocable death sentence, the cave, the rats, being eaten alive. What on God’s green Earth was going through his subconscious to be bringing such visions to the fore? Perhaps it was just the alcohol. The Vodka had sentenced him to a death he couldn’t avoid, and terrorised him by envisioning another, more gruesome death. It had then disillusioned him into upsetting his wife.
If vodka was the cause of this mess, he wouldn’t be drinking any more of it in the near future, that was for sure.