I'm really reaching a point where I find it so much more appealing to write the actions when I'm writing a novel than to dictate them in a comic script. Not too long ago, I preferred scripting just because I was no good at writing novel narration, but now it's flipped. trying to describe what someone is doing as clearly as possible for future reference is a lot less entertaining than trying to make the readers experience it, like here:
-the emergency room is awash with light - bubbling with bodies.
Nothing has ever hurt so bad.
The air is morbid with the scent of blood and the chemicals used for sterilization. Poisonously clean. I almost swoon from dizzy nausea, feeling the light pass away from me in phases.
The shadows settle, swamping mine, like a heavy blanket thrown over my head. I’m abducted and dragged further into the darkness.
As the first rush of the painkillers bleeds through my system I lose touch with my surroundings, almost convinced I’m standing in a vast emptiness, watching the clouds blot out the sun, and submerge me in sticky black. Sweat glitters on every inch of unbroken skin, and pools in places I didn’t know I could sweat, saturating my hair and running down my face, into my eyes.
It’s washed out by a scorching bright- pure white, with spots of noxious neon.
The endless hum of over-bright. LED. electric lights. sings in my ears like a chorus of skittish cicadas, fanning their wings, as if they’re desperate to escape. I can’t blame them. Trembling like a miniature earthquake. My body tries to make sense of this cataclysm that’s left my world seeing stars.
My head spins again, turning bodies topsy turvy. Smearing faces into the paint. Baptized with blood in the white space. I’m not even sure when I woke up or how long I’ve spent lying here, staring at the walls or the ceiling. My senses are all scrambled. Am I facing the left or the right? Am I hearing or feeling the voices crashing around me, a barrage of nervous wrecks? I swim in the excruciating sensation, almost blacking out. I feel as though I'm hanging from the rafters by my hair, and the pressure in my neck only increases with every crash of my heartbeat. My mouth defies me as I try to call for a nurse - my jaw is locked tight as if it’s been screwed shut and it's stubbornly set on staying that way for the moment. The whole thing fills. With bitter bile. I can’t swallow. And I try desperately not to drown before somebody finds me.
