"I don't understand why you don't understand." -- Anon Guest
This place was an outrage. Roman's first thought as he returned to consciousness was that someone was going to pay for being so loud in his vicinity. It didn't matter to him that the someone was a baby. It mattered that the baby was interrupting his rest. There was other hubbub. People talking. People clattering around with things. He opened his eyes to see dingy grey foam tiles in the ceiling. Who had under-bid for this disgusting decor?
It got worse. The dingy grey was everywhere. The whitewashed walls were grey. The privacy curtains were grey. The sheets were grey. Even the linoleum (someone was going to get sued for that) was a distinct shade of once-was-white. The place was full of people. He could see them bumping the curtain around his bed. He could hear them chattering away in an assortment of languages. He could hear a baby crying, he could hear someone coughing. He could hear someone else sneezing. And worst of all, he'd been awake for an entire minute without getting any kind of service or upgrade or even an apology. All he had was a button, which he spammed.
They took twenty minutes to get to him, and when they did, they were also wearing a white that had gone grey. They looked unprofessional. Tired, with a sunless pallor and an air that they were so very done with the world to date. Their first action was to move the button out of Roman's immediate reach. "I understand you're scared, but you're relatively unharmed. There's been an immense tragedy. An unregistered private jet lost control and crashed through two blocks of residential complexes with full fuel tanks. The resultant fire caused the collapse of the buildings and spread to five more blocks. You're in triage while we work through more urgent cases. What do you remember before waking up here?"
Roman figured that playing nice now might get him out of trouble later. Plus the most recent events were more than vague. "I was... having drinks with my friends..."
"That tracks with your blood alcohol content. It was pretty high when you were admitted." The alleged professional jotted things down. Pen and paper. How gauche. This place obviously deserved to get its funding cut if it couldn't afford to give the staff tablets to work with. "Were you doing anything else?"
He wasn't going to say that he had been laughing about flying his friends around in the new private jet his daddy had bought him just last week. He'd had a week's worth of lessons, and that was plenty. His instructor was always saying how he was flying like a pro. He did say, "Can I have a phone? I wanna call my dad."
"Was he in the complexes?"
"No, he was at work. I want to let him know I'm okay."
"Phone lines have been down since the crash and the mobile network in this area was effected, since the antennae was on the roof of the crash site. If you can give me your name, I can add you to the list of survivors. I'm sure your father will be watching that."
Ugh. These people. "Just gimmie a phone and let me call him. I want to get out of here."
"We all want to get out of here, sir. Unfortunately, some people may have been contaminated by dust from the smoke detectors, and--"
"I don't care what your excuses are, give me a phone!"
The man with the clipboard had a phone in one of those huge old padded cases with a Gen One smartphone. It was so ridiculous that it made Roman laugh. This man was a doctor! He definitely had the money to have the latest thing. He activated it and said, "Electricity is down, too. We're operating in an emergency situation. As you can see, there's no reception."
Roman snatched it off him and brought up the phone interface. This thing was so slow. "Why's it got a red bar across the dial button?"
"Because you cannot call out, sir. The networks and the power are down. If you will give me your name, I can--"
"I don't care!" Roman threw the phone. There were no walls to smash it against, so it hit the curtain and fell to the floor. "This treatment is an outrage! I demand a suite! My father will hear of this and sue you until you die in prison! I want to call my father now! Make it happen!"
This did not have the desired effect. What happened instead was two bulky orderlies holding Roman down while another alleged professional added a needle of something to his IV.
There was a crowd of them. People in white coats. Coats that had once been white and had faded into grey. One was lecturing the younger others.
"John Doe, found in the vicinity of the Falrello residential projects. He was unconscious when found without ID, and admitted with a blood alcohol content of zero point two nine five. He was unconscious for twelve hours after admitting to triage. Upon returning to consciousness, he showed aggressive and irrational behaviour, and had to be sedated. He has refused to give his name or the names of any relatives. We are currently seeking a court order to obtain his DNA for a familial search in order to locate his family."
Roman tried to talk. All that came out were vowels. "Ih... eh... oh..." He tried to move. It didn't work.
"This patient is restrained for his safety and the safety of others, until such time as his identity and proper care can be established."
He watched in horror as baby-faced students were allowed to grope him and do things with the stuff all around him. Roman barely managed to grab one clammy student hand. He tried to say, "Call my father," but all that came out was, "Ah... I... a'ah..."
They slipped from his grip. "Try to calm down, sir," they said. "We'll sort things out. You just have to be patient."
He could hear students discussing medical mental issues he could have. He could hear the news, where someone was announcing that he was dead. He could barely mumble, "...'m not dead..." Nobody listened. Nobody listened to what he was trying to say.
"Of course you're not dead," said a smiling face in a sea of faces. "You're going to get better. We're all doing everything we can."
Things passed him by in a series of blinks. Blink. People were asking him his name and refusing to believe that he was Roman Falrello. Roman Falrello had died in a plane crash and his father had buried the body. Blink. He tried to tell them that he was heir to the Falrello billions. Blink. Someone was asking him if he understood. Understood what? There were no Falrello billions. The entire family had liquidated everything after the scandal. Blink. It was still in the news. Dad had used the lowest bidders to create the Falrello residential complexes and thousands of people had died. Blink. The entire fortune was gone and people were thinking that Roman was delusional.
Blink. Crisp, white walls and no restraints. He was in a simple cotton robe and had paper slippers. Blink. Nurses took him to make sure he took his pills. Blink. He could look outside, but not go outside. He didn't want to, because it was grey. Blink. Someone was reading a court order and asking him if he consented. He said yes because it was the first time in months that anyone had asked his permission for anything. Blink. His father was on the television, joking about how he was lucky that his son died in the projects crash. Otherwise, he'd be facing a whole ton more legal fees. As it was, he was down by three seasonal homes - three! That was too terrible to contemplate. Blink. Someone was telling him that his DNA had turned up in a string of unsolved rape cases. Orderlies held him down as the drugs faded away enough for him to speak.
He tried to explain how it wasn't a 'real' rape. How none of them were. That girl was lying and anyway, she'd never said 'no'. They didn't understand. How could they not understand? He was Roman Falrello. He was the son of the most powerful man in the world. He was rich. One day he would own everything his father owned. If only they'd just listen.
Roman couldn't understand. He couldn't ever understand how they couldn't understand.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / balounm]
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