Thread: Writer's Block [Gypsy & Crusade]

Along with the disorientation carved into Jerry's attributes, the animosity Delilah received did not slip past her attention. It was nearly one and the same with every patient who had no recollection to the events that led to their admission to a hospital. He looked at her as if she was some foreign alien who had invaded his home, which in hindsight couldn't have been farther from the truth. Diverse features, analogous feelings. What set Jerry apart from the others was the fortitude that superseded the foremost emotions. While others bore resignation and defeat or melancholy and depression, his was a blend of frustration and determination for what, she wasn't certain. Quite a sight Delilah was ill-equipped to face. Perhaps what his manager informed her was indeed true Jerry Brockers, rising author, was a reclusive hermit of a writer. None had stepped foot in his abode apart from Wallace, thus why the scribe might respond with hostility once he realized that his territory had been breached. It was a natural reaction on any species, she supposed countering with aggression to any intruders was an intrinsic response she could not attest to his perplexity or his solitary nature. How to appease the aforementioned instinct was the tricky part. Wallace should have stayed. He was a familiar face to Jerry, a far more welcome sight than a complete stranger like Delilah. The mental dialogue she had been rehearsing upon his awakening rested on the tip of her tongue, ready to be delivered with equal pitches of austerity and amiability. Yet when he seized her arm, it wholly dissolved whatever preparation she had. Momentarily paralyzed with surprise, the glass she was holding shattered on the floor after saturating his sheets, eliciting the slightest of yelps from the nurse. Only then did it dawn on her how irrevocably perilous it was to have a charge physically larger and stronger than her own petite physique. His grip entirely engulfed a lanky arm of hers, briefly hurting her with the might of his grasp. How she would subdue him eluded her, yet she had to try rather than run back to the hospital with her tail tucked between her legs, plead for a replacement and prove her ineptitude. The bewilderment that plagued her with regards to his indomitable countenance upon waking up was answered with the demands he uttered. The computer? It was an odd insistence first thing to consciousness, yet she wasn't in a position to comply if she didn't deem it appropriate to his health. Mr. Brockers. It was an unyielding call whilst she attempted to pry his clasp on her arm, simultaneously endeavoring to push him back to a supine position on his bed. Mr. Brockers, listen to me. You're not in any state to get out of bed let alone sit in front of a computer. You're haven't recovered fully yet. You're confined to bed rest. You just woke up after two days of unconsciousness. What you need isn't your computer it's to get some food in you. The nutrients in your IV drip can only do so much before your wellbeing will decline. Please lie back down. Your deadline isn't as important as your recovery. Do you understand? How will you meet your deadline if you've kicked the bucket while trying to meet it? Once eschewed from his grasp and without waiting for his compliance, Delilah cautiously avoided the shards of glass on the floor. Where are your broom andnevermind, I can't leave you alone. I still haven't fully explored your cabin which is very beautiful by the way aside from the essentials. I wouldn't want to without your consent anyhow. Spying a trash bin nearby, she filched it and crouched by the fallen shards, carefully plucking them piece by piece and dropping it into the basket. Don't get off the bed until I've fully dusted the floor. You might step on glass and scar your feet, and that's the last thing we need to happen. You're not to leave there unless you've eaten anyway, or if you need to go to the bathroom, alright? Maybe then we can get you to your computer. If we do so now, you'd just faint from weakness, and we're going back to square one. It was evident that Delilah was maundering to conceal the disquiet that beleaguered her mindset. Fortunately, her locution was fluent, belying the tremors that possessed her hands as they collected the mess she made. Beneath the pedantic white nurse uniform she donned, her heartbeat fluttered much like hummingbird wings birthed by the perturbation of handling a case alone. What if she was unable to handle this? What if he suffered a severe withdrawal she could not placate? What ifCrap! The helter-skelter of her thoughts distracted her concentration, resulting to the prick of her digits where a scarlet rivulet bloomed from the perforated pad of her fingertips. Instantly, she pilfered handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and pressed it unto the injured region.