The Apple (Dalton)
Dec 15, 2010 23:36:53 GMT -5
Post by Shane McLeod on Dec 15, 2010 23:36:53 GMT -5
It was Shane’s first Monday at Hammel. It was slightly disconcerting for him to think in days of the week again instead of shifts. He was in the midst of unpacking his office, and his mind, after the Holiday Bash. He assembled the examination bench, the methodical and logical work was nigh contradictory to the thoughts ricocheting around his brain.
Shane never had any problems with kids or animals, for whatever reason he understood them. Adults and peers were a completely different story. He had friends his whole life; but for Shane, a friend was someone he could spend a weekend with—playing cards, catching up, drinking a bit and then not hear from for another 6 months until they repeated the process.
Shane couldn’t quite fathom what had happened, only that something had gone wrong when he’d tried to help Josh. Shane still thought of him as Mr. Bernstein. Both Clarisse and Sean seemed taken aback by his attempts to help the man. He stood up once the legs were assembled, and walked over to his desk. He still needed to finish the partition and triple-check that he had gauze, gloves, and the assortment of other items one needed for an in-house doctor.
Over the weekend he’d received a welcome home give from his mother. The fruit basket was on the corner of his desk, filled with a cornucopia of apples, pears, bananas, the odd kiwi, and his favorite- blood oranges. Mother knew him well. He sat down and began peeling one of the oranges while he contemplated where to hang his licenses and degrees that were stacked next to the basket.
He’d just barely opened the rind when he heard the unmistakable knock of a certain British gentleman. Just the person Shane wanted to see. “Good Morning to you Mr. Dalton. Please, come in.” He stood up and wiped the juice from the orange onto a napkin, staining it read. “What can I do for you today?” Addressing the other man, Shane was yet again reminded how shabby his attire, his entire wardrobe, was. Everything about this man was clean, pressed, and presentable.
So unlike Shane, with his second-hand suit-jackets and untailored shirts. What I wouldn’t give, to be like this man. A knight who breathes honor, not a boy that swears by it every day. He thought sardonically looking at his Eagle Scout placard with the fleur de lis background on the wall. It was the first thing he’d put up.
Shane never had any problems with kids or animals, for whatever reason he understood them. Adults and peers were a completely different story. He had friends his whole life; but for Shane, a friend was someone he could spend a weekend with—playing cards, catching up, drinking a bit and then not hear from for another 6 months until they repeated the process.
Shane couldn’t quite fathom what had happened, only that something had gone wrong when he’d tried to help Josh. Shane still thought of him as Mr. Bernstein. Both Clarisse and Sean seemed taken aback by his attempts to help the man. He stood up once the legs were assembled, and walked over to his desk. He still needed to finish the partition and triple-check that he had gauze, gloves, and the assortment of other items one needed for an in-house doctor.
Over the weekend he’d received a welcome home give from his mother. The fruit basket was on the corner of his desk, filled with a cornucopia of apples, pears, bananas, the odd kiwi, and his favorite- blood oranges. Mother knew him well. He sat down and began peeling one of the oranges while he contemplated where to hang his licenses and degrees that were stacked next to the basket.
He’d just barely opened the rind when he heard the unmistakable knock of a certain British gentleman. Just the person Shane wanted to see. “Good Morning to you Mr. Dalton. Please, come in.” He stood up and wiped the juice from the orange onto a napkin, staining it read. “What can I do for you today?” Addressing the other man, Shane was yet again reminded how shabby his attire, his entire wardrobe, was. Everything about this man was clean, pressed, and presentable.
So unlike Shane, with his second-hand suit-jackets and untailored shirts. What I wouldn’t give, to be like this man. A knight who breathes honor, not a boy that swears by it every day. He thought sardonically looking at his Eagle Scout placard with the fleur de lis background on the wall. It was the first thing he’d put up.
