Sloth was truly the worst of the seven sins.
Nathaniel's house was burning down, and the effort of moving a single finger felt as monumental as lifting a mountain. Closing his eyes, forgetting the inferno, and drifting to sleep seemed a far more reasonable course of action.
Ah, I'm tired.
A two-meter-long rod of rebar was sticking out of his gut. His house was burning down. And the only thought that surfaced through the haze of pain and exhaustion was a snippet from a late-night health show. The corners of his lips curled into a weak, bloody smirk.
"What was that about life flashing before your eyes?" he slurred to the empty, burning room. "I'm remembering stupid things."
He started looking around; his phone was probably in his bedroom. There wasn't anything that could help him nearby. He sighed, the sound lost to the crackle of the encroaching flames. He started thinking about random stuff. I should've probably sold this junk house. It was an old brick cottage with bright red walls. And I should've probably raised a dog; at least it could've helped me in this situation. Wait, how could a dog help me take this rod out of my gut? In fact, it would be long dead before me. He lets out another weary breath.
A fresh wave of heat from the burning cottage scoured over him. The air shimmered with it. For a moment, the flames didn't look like flames at all, but great, beating wings of gold and crimson.
Nathaniel blinked, and the wings were just fire again. The blood loss was worse than he thought. He focused on the pain in his gut, the only real thing. He had to move. For Ruan, his dead sister. For Mabel, his living niece.
Mabel. The name was a hook in his soul, hauling him forward. She was thirteen now. Would she even remember the lazy uncle who always forgot her birthday?
"Uncle's coming," he slurred to the empty, cold street, his breath pluming in the air. It sounded like a lie, even to him.
He sat up, the rod shifting with a nauseating grate of metal on bone. Ah, even feeling the pain was burdensome...Why is everything a hassle? He gritted his teeth and stood up. He swayed lightly and dragged himself out, limping a bit. Nine broken bones, he noted, and yeah, the impaled gut.
Blood dripped into his eyes, painting the world red. Ah, a head wound too. So he still had blood to lose—that was a good sign, right? He smiled- a grim, bloody rictus- and began his shuffling pilgrimage to the nearest hospital. The street was a tunnel of darkness, the only light a single, flickering lamp that gasped its last breaths.
What steed?
"Am I going insane? It doesn't matter. Uncle's coming, Mabel, maybe not quite right now, but immediately after the doctor patches me up."
It's cold. No wonder it was three in the morning. That also explained why people weren't rushing over to ask him unnecessary questions. He sighed. Should I just lie down and sleep? he started wondering. The cold will kill me faster than the wounds, he thought, and decided against sleeping on the street.
What does that even mean?
Of course I can't. I need to take care of my niece, and maybe get married to a beautiful and caring lady.
Can you shut your trap? I'm thinking about something.
That's right. He sighed internally. It was all too much effort.
"I'm not going crazy, am I? Wait, I kind of am insane. Maybe I should check with a psychiatrist on the way back."
I just don't want her to grow up in an orphanage like we did. And what was that about a phoenix? How troublesome. This is gonna cost me more, on top of the sleeping pills.
The pain intensified—a deep, cellular ache as his bones and muscles knitted themselves back together. A car approached, then accelerated sharply, its driver doubtless mistaking him for a zombie on his evening stroll.
He could see the red and blue neon sign of the hospital. He finally reached the Cayman General Hospital. He didn't bother to wake up the sleeping guard and went straight to the reception, where the receptionist was also dozing off. His lips curled upward. "How slothful." He pressed the bell on the desk and the receptionist stirred.
She rubbed her eyes and slowly looked at him, and a scream escaped her mouth. The security guard who had been sleeping outside rushed in, his face paling as he looked at Nathan. Nathan smiled politely and offered them both a curt bow, which was obstructed by the rod sticking out of his gut. He frowned, a bit disturbed by the rod, and faced the receptionist.
"Hey, my name is Nathaniel Alden. I live at 32nd Builders Street. I have nine fractured bones—six ribs, two in my arm, and one in my shoulder. And, well, this rod sticking out of my gut, as well as a wound on my head—I think I no longer have the one on my head, I guess. Is a doctor available?"
The receptionist frantically grabbed the telephone and called the nurses, who came rushing. They carefully put him on a gurney and rushed him to the O.R. On the way, the older nurse, who introduced herself as Anne, applied pressure around the rod and asked him some questions.
"How long ago were you wounded?"
"About an hour ago, I guess."
"Do you feel any pain apart from the rod and the broken bones?"
"No."
"On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your pain?"
"My senses are a bit dull, but a 3, I think."
"Do you have any immediate family members or friends I can call for you?"
"I have a niece, but she's thirteen years old, so yeah, not exactly an ideal candidate for all that. I also need to pick her up tomorrow, so can we hurry up a bit?"
The doctor joined them in the ICU, and the nurses explained the details, informing him that Nathan was in shock. One of the other nurses was administering a sedative, and her hands were shaking a bit. Newbie, huh. Well, certainly it's not every day a maniac walks in calmly with severe injuries.
It seems they are giving me cheap stuff. It seems I am going to be awake during the whole session. Should I ask for a discount when I'm done?