Osho awoke, in a style which fit him, suddenly, the waving colors of his eyes suddenly snapping open. He scanned the room: a plain, somewhat small room in the local hospital with a window. How long had he been there? Lifting his arm to touch his face, he could feel the lethargic pull of his weakened limbs, touched the matted, oily mess of lank hair that cascaded down his pillow. He needed a haircut badly.
No one else currently shared his room, possibly due to a combination of his privileged status as a member of a wealthy local clan and his active though low-ranking station in the city's military. He pale blue, thin smock was scratchy on his body, but as he inspected himself he found that he had not become emaciated. He stood, shakily, had to catch himself and lean heavily on the IV pole which fed various fluids and medications into him. He clucked his tongue, tasting the acerbic, coppery flavor of his mouth. How long had he been here?
He moved himself shakily over to the edge of the bed, grabbing his medical log and scanning it. He was not a doctor, nor had any particular desire to be one, but he'd had rudimentary medical training in the academy and produced - at one point - a wide variety of medications and drugs, so he had a bit of experience with the lingo. Some form of non-descript coma, but he suspected it had been that bull of a man at the negotiations. Poison perhaps, and a strong one at that. Uncharacteristic for such an absolute buffoon, but honestly rather typical he felt for a union leader. He took a few moments to stew, sitting back on the bed and thinking. How to pick up a life abandoned? For now, he would have to make due with checking himself out of the hospital.
Exit
No one else currently shared his room, possibly due to a combination of his privileged status as a member of a wealthy local clan and his active though low-ranking station in the city's military. He pale blue, thin smock was scratchy on his body, but as he inspected himself he found that he had not become emaciated. He stood, shakily, had to catch himself and lean heavily on the IV pole which fed various fluids and medications into him. He clucked his tongue, tasting the acerbic, coppery flavor of his mouth. How long had he been here?
He moved himself shakily over to the edge of the bed, grabbing his medical log and scanning it. He was not a doctor, nor had any particular desire to be one, but he'd had rudimentary medical training in the academy and produced - at one point - a wide variety of medications and drugs, so he had a bit of experience with the lingo. Some form of non-descript coma, but he suspected it had been that bull of a man at the negotiations. Poison perhaps, and a strong one at that. Uncharacteristic for such an absolute buffoon, but honestly rather typical he felt for a union leader. He took a few moments to stew, sitting back on the bed and thinking. How to pick up a life abandoned? For now, he would have to make due with checking himself out of the hospital.
Exit
