Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > To Be Announced
This is one of my favorite chapters of the entire story, because it gives you a look at Bert's softer side. There's also a juicy little surprise at the end.
Don't bother looking up the disorder, btw. I made it up in Bio 100.
The hospital lobby is loud and crowded, stuffed full of people suffering damage from the storms. Mothers trying to coo soaked infants to sleep while their other children tug on her sleeves and complain of hunger. A large group of elderly women who I can only assume were taken out of a nursing home to keep from getting hurt. Gee stays perfectly still and silent in my arms, face now relaxed and white. The other nurses give me strange looks, like I should be working or something, not holding a strange man in my arms like I’m the Pieta. Finally one approaches me, her soft blonde hair cut into a bob, framing her face in a cascade of bleached gold tufts. Her head cocks slightly at the motley sight, “Do you work here?” she asks gently, her voice becoming drowned in the noise.
I shake my head, and lift Gee up a little, like some kind of virgin sacrifice, “He’s sick, I came here from Saint Joan’s.” I explain, my voice struggling to lift above the cacophony.
She cocks her eyebrow at me, “The clinic? What on earth were you two doing there?”
Sighing deeply, I lower him back into my lap and fold my arms, “It happens okay? Can we get some help or not?”
A look of reproach crosses her thin face, “You seem fine to me. Certainly are being rude enough.” She chided, her pink lips pursed defiantly.
“But you still haven’t taken into account the pale, naked man flopped across my legs.”
My retort stops her, and the faint smell of cinnamon fills my nose as she gnaws away at her gum with apprehension. The nurse sneers at my lack of formality, but waves over an orderly with a wheelchair anyways, "When did he become sick?" she questions, jotting things down on a vacant clipboard.
I smile rather smugly, “Just this morning, it’s actually very complicated.”
I load Gee into the wheelchair, maneuvering his supine form into the crinkled, plastic seating. She blinks heavily, pushing the pen cap to her teeth and blinking her giant blue eyes at me, “I need some sort of explanation before we can admit him.”
I huff and hold him up again, his head flopping back with a sickening lack of life, “Is this explanation enough for you?”
She tuts quietly and taps her foot on the floor, “Take him to exam 4.” She mutters, her gaze shifting quickly to the pimply orderly waiting nervously to the side.
“What’s your name?” I ask, trying to catch her as she makes her leave.
She gives me a quick double-take, and flips the hair from her eyes, “Its Eliza.”
The orderly starts down the crowded hallway, the snobby nurse trotting close to him. I falter behind, not sure whether or not to follow them, my eyes glued to the scuffed linoleum. They take him into an unmarked exam room, roughly pulling him from the chair and laying him out on the bed. I watch from outside, my hand splayed across the gritty glass. The venetian blinds obscure most of the scene, but I can see the nurse listening to his chest and giving her colleague a strange look. She moves the stethoscope downward, resting it on top of his belly, and my heart drops a little. Did I do something wrong? Is he dead?
The world swirls in violent tempests around me, the air thrashing and warping. I press my hand eagerly against the window, my sight darting and trying to soak in and process the sheer direness of the situation. After a few minutes, I back away from the window and slide down the adjacent wall, burrowing my face into my palms. How could I be so stupid? I just let him get worse in the cold and darkness. And now… now, I waited too long and he’s dead!
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” I murmur furiously, ramming the back of my skull into the bricks.
Several doctors and patients roaming the halls give me very confused (and some extremely lewd) looks as the scurry past. I think I have an aura of awkward surrounding my being, and anyone with a half-conscious mind can detect it. I find myself tap my fingers nervously along the floor, waiting for some kind of human contact, and at least have the comfort of knowing I didn’t kill one of my patients. I slide myself up the wall at a gratingly sluggish pace, pushing my hands into my knees to support them as I can higher. Years of working on my feet 50 hours a week have left my legs and back pained and brittle, not to mention my ankles have swollen so they’re no longer discernable parts of my feet.
I look over into the exam room, biting nervously on my lip. A couple doctors have gone in, both dressed in glaring white coats and disgusting taupe scrubs. They’re both talking in rushed, almost feverish tones, giving each other looks before glaring at the bed. I place a shaking, ginger hand on the door handle, feeling rather apprehensive about the entire situation. The nurse, Eliza, picks up her head and her eyes connect with mine, a look of terror flooding over her face. She waves an arm and the two doctors stop arguing, now both of them staring through the tiny glass portal I’m standing behind.
“Can I come in?” I half-shout, hoping my voice will get through the heavy wooden door.
Everyone exchanges nervously glances, before unlocking the door and allowing my entrance. I wait a few moments as their conversation picks up again, stepping in halfway through the younger doctor’s tirade, “--Y syndrome hasn’t been seen in years! Why is it popping up all of a sudden in some guy from North Carolina?”
A hushed murmur falls over the room as I close the door behind me and shuffle off towards the corner. The older man shakes his head, putting a worn hand to his bearded chin, “He has all the warning flags though. Italian mother; homosexual, for the most part anyways; not to mention it has symptoms and records of the defects in his medical history!”
I narrow my eyes at the two men, what are they on about? Gee isn’t defective, no more than anyone else is anyways. I fell my mouth slack open like a fish, and the words just start pouring out like a fountain of stupidity, “What are you morons ranting about?”
The younger turns to look at me, his grey eyes cold and harsh as he glares at my chest, “It’s a genetic disorder called Extended-Y Syndrome. It was discovered by a Greek doctor named Narios Kalius in 1847.”
I roll my eyes, “Oh that’s helpful.”
Eliza snuffs at me, “It means his Y chromosome is longer than other males.”
I shrug stupidly, and fold my arms across my chest, “So what’s wrong with him, other than the obvious lack of color and warmth?”
The older doctor blinks behind his coke-bottle glasses, and pushes a tired sigh from his mouth, “it means his chromosome has the characteristics of both X and Y…”
I look over at Gee. He doesn’t look feminine. I mean, the long hair and little up-turned nose are more cute than gender based. I move closer to the bed, running my hands up his arm; it was covered with tiny black hairs, so was his chest. So… how is he part chick?
I give the man a confused, almost helpless look, “So… is he okay?”
His gaze looks down at Gee, then at his clipboard, “You might want to sit down.”
I nod anxiously and lower my body into the torn tweed chair by the bed, snaking my quivering hands around the wooden rails. “Yes?”
“You’re friend is pregnant.”
I blink, and wobble up from the chair. My vision goes in and out for a few seconds before my legs give in and I crumple to the floor in a heap.
HE’S WHAT?!
Don't bother looking up the disorder, btw. I made it up in Bio 100.
The hospital lobby is loud and crowded, stuffed full of people suffering damage from the storms. Mothers trying to coo soaked infants to sleep while their other children tug on her sleeves and complain of hunger. A large group of elderly women who I can only assume were taken out of a nursing home to keep from getting hurt. Gee stays perfectly still and silent in my arms, face now relaxed and white. The other nurses give me strange looks, like I should be working or something, not holding a strange man in my arms like I’m the Pieta. Finally one approaches me, her soft blonde hair cut into a bob, framing her face in a cascade of bleached gold tufts. Her head cocks slightly at the motley sight, “Do you work here?” she asks gently, her voice becoming drowned in the noise.
I shake my head, and lift Gee up a little, like some kind of virgin sacrifice, “He’s sick, I came here from Saint Joan’s.” I explain, my voice struggling to lift above the cacophony.
She cocks her eyebrow at me, “The clinic? What on earth were you two doing there?”
Sighing deeply, I lower him back into my lap and fold my arms, “It happens okay? Can we get some help or not?”
A look of reproach crosses her thin face, “You seem fine to me. Certainly are being rude enough.” She chided, her pink lips pursed defiantly.
“But you still haven’t taken into account the pale, naked man flopped across my legs.”
My retort stops her, and the faint smell of cinnamon fills my nose as she gnaws away at her gum with apprehension. The nurse sneers at my lack of formality, but waves over an orderly with a wheelchair anyways, "When did he become sick?" she questions, jotting things down on a vacant clipboard.
I smile rather smugly, “Just this morning, it’s actually very complicated.”
I load Gee into the wheelchair, maneuvering his supine form into the crinkled, plastic seating. She blinks heavily, pushing the pen cap to her teeth and blinking her giant blue eyes at me, “I need some sort of explanation before we can admit him.”
I huff and hold him up again, his head flopping back with a sickening lack of life, “Is this explanation enough for you?”
She tuts quietly and taps her foot on the floor, “Take him to exam 4.” She mutters, her gaze shifting quickly to the pimply orderly waiting nervously to the side.
“What’s your name?” I ask, trying to catch her as she makes her leave.
She gives me a quick double-take, and flips the hair from her eyes, “Its Eliza.”
The orderly starts down the crowded hallway, the snobby nurse trotting close to him. I falter behind, not sure whether or not to follow them, my eyes glued to the scuffed linoleum. They take him into an unmarked exam room, roughly pulling him from the chair and laying him out on the bed. I watch from outside, my hand splayed across the gritty glass. The venetian blinds obscure most of the scene, but I can see the nurse listening to his chest and giving her colleague a strange look. She moves the stethoscope downward, resting it on top of his belly, and my heart drops a little. Did I do something wrong? Is he dead?
The world swirls in violent tempests around me, the air thrashing and warping. I press my hand eagerly against the window, my sight darting and trying to soak in and process the sheer direness of the situation. After a few minutes, I back away from the window and slide down the adjacent wall, burrowing my face into my palms. How could I be so stupid? I just let him get worse in the cold and darkness. And now… now, I waited too long and he’s dead!
“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” I murmur furiously, ramming the back of my skull into the bricks.
Several doctors and patients roaming the halls give me very confused (and some extremely lewd) looks as the scurry past. I think I have an aura of awkward surrounding my being, and anyone with a half-conscious mind can detect it. I find myself tap my fingers nervously along the floor, waiting for some kind of human contact, and at least have the comfort of knowing I didn’t kill one of my patients. I slide myself up the wall at a gratingly sluggish pace, pushing my hands into my knees to support them as I can higher. Years of working on my feet 50 hours a week have left my legs and back pained and brittle, not to mention my ankles have swollen so they’re no longer discernable parts of my feet.
I look over into the exam room, biting nervously on my lip. A couple doctors have gone in, both dressed in glaring white coats and disgusting taupe scrubs. They’re both talking in rushed, almost feverish tones, giving each other looks before glaring at the bed. I place a shaking, ginger hand on the door handle, feeling rather apprehensive about the entire situation. The nurse, Eliza, picks up her head and her eyes connect with mine, a look of terror flooding over her face. She waves an arm and the two doctors stop arguing, now both of them staring through the tiny glass portal I’m standing behind.
“Can I come in?” I half-shout, hoping my voice will get through the heavy wooden door.
Everyone exchanges nervously glances, before unlocking the door and allowing my entrance. I wait a few moments as their conversation picks up again, stepping in halfway through the younger doctor’s tirade, “--Y syndrome hasn’t been seen in years! Why is it popping up all of a sudden in some guy from North Carolina?”
A hushed murmur falls over the room as I close the door behind me and shuffle off towards the corner. The older man shakes his head, putting a worn hand to his bearded chin, “He has all the warning flags though. Italian mother; homosexual, for the most part anyways; not to mention it has symptoms and records of the defects in his medical history!”
I narrow my eyes at the two men, what are they on about? Gee isn’t defective, no more than anyone else is anyways. I fell my mouth slack open like a fish, and the words just start pouring out like a fountain of stupidity, “What are you morons ranting about?”
The younger turns to look at me, his grey eyes cold and harsh as he glares at my chest, “It’s a genetic disorder called Extended-Y Syndrome. It was discovered by a Greek doctor named Narios Kalius in 1847.”
I roll my eyes, “Oh that’s helpful.”
Eliza snuffs at me, “It means his Y chromosome is longer than other males.”
I shrug stupidly, and fold my arms across my chest, “So what’s wrong with him, other than the obvious lack of color and warmth?”
The older doctor blinks behind his coke-bottle glasses, and pushes a tired sigh from his mouth, “it means his chromosome has the characteristics of both X and Y…”
I look over at Gee. He doesn’t look feminine. I mean, the long hair and little up-turned nose are more cute than gender based. I move closer to the bed, running my hands up his arm; it was covered with tiny black hairs, so was his chest. So… how is he part chick?
I give the man a confused, almost helpless look, “So… is he okay?”
His gaze looks down at Gee, then at his clipboard, “You might want to sit down.”
I nod anxiously and lower my body into the torn tweed chair by the bed, snaking my quivering hands around the wooden rails. “Yes?”
“You’re friend is pregnant.”
I blink, and wobble up from the chair. My vision goes in and out for a few seconds before my legs give in and I crumple to the floor in a heap.
HE’S WHAT?!
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