Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct my mistakes in the fifth part of my short story?
The late afternoon traffic was heavy because of all the commuters who were returning home. This time, Paul could't calm himself. The passing vehicles were buzzing in his head like angry wasps. His nerves were on edge, and he kept walking along the motorway, not knowing what to do. But he was determined in one thing -- he would rather kill himself than return to the house. When he reached the bus stop, a thought occurred to him he should seek medical help. He got on the bus to the town and then walked to A&E. He hadn't seen a doctor for years, but he now felt they had to help him.The waiting room was overcrowded, and a young nurse at the reception desk who took his particulars told him him he was going to wait for many hours.
Paul didn't care because he was safe, surrounded with the people in need of medical attention just like him. It was a busy evening, and the patients kept coming unabated, some on foot and others on stretchers and in wheelchairs. He wished he could catch some sleep but was too agitated. He still couldn't believe he had put himself in this situation. He never liked to ask for help on anything, but this was exactly what he was doing. His life was slipping out of his hands, but his enemy was invisible and playing with him like a cat with a mouse.
Finally, after midnight, he was ushered into a small room, where a middle-aged doctor sat at his desk. His face was sallow and unshaven, he had dark rings beneath his bleary eyes, his blond hair was dishevelled. He looked as if he had not slept well for days. They shook hands, and he told Paul to sit down. He described for him in detail what had happened since he moved to the house and the fear that drove him to the brink of madness. but the doctor didn't seemed moved. His boredom was growing with every passing minute.
"How can I help you?" he asked.
"Please let me sleep on the ward a day or two till I feel better," Paul said.
"You're are at the wrong place," the doctor said. This is neither a hotel nor an accommodation agency." His monotonous voice sounded as if it belonged to a robot, devoid of any human feelings.
Impotent rage rose in Paul. He imagined smashing the doctor's perfect teeth so that in the future whenever he ate he should remember how badly he treated a patient.
"I'm feeling terrible, doctor!" His voice cracked. "If I don't get help I'm going to kill myself. I can't stand it any more."
"You're not sick. It's your own thoughts and imagination that are playing tricks on you. Ask a friend to accommodate you for a few days or rent a hotel room, and you'll be fine."
Paul opened his mouth to protest, but the doctor stopped him by raising his hand. "Do you know how many trauma cases we had this evening? Two stabbings, three fatal car crashes, an attempted suicide... And my night shift is not finished yet."
He got up and ushered him outside, wishing him good luck, but Paul didn't say a word. He thought, You swine. I pay my taxes, toil like a madman to pay my bills while you enjoy expensive dinners with your family. And when I need help I'm treated like nothing.
TO BE CONTINUED
The late afternoon traffic was heavy because of all the commuters who were returning home. This time, Paul could't calm himself. The passing vehicles were buzzing in his head like angry wasps. His nerves were on edge, and he kept walking along the motorway, not knowing what to do. But he was determined in one thing -- he would rather kill himself than return to the house. When he reached the bus stop, a thought occurred to him he should seek medical help. He got on the bus to the town and then walked to A&E. He hadn't seen a doctor for years, but he now felt they had to help him.The waiting room was overcrowded, and a young nurse at the reception desk who took his particulars told him him he was going to wait for many hours.
Paul didn't care because he was safe, surrounded with the people in need of medical attention just like him. It was a busy evening, and the patients kept coming unabated, some on foot and others on stretchers and in wheelchairs. He wished he could catch some sleep but was too agitated. He still couldn't believe he had put himself in this situation. He never liked to ask for help on anything, but this was exactly what he was doing. His life was slipping out of his hands, but his enemy was invisible and playing with him like a cat with a mouse.
Finally, after midnight, he was ushered into a small room, where a middle-aged doctor sat at his desk. His face was sallow and unshaven, he had dark rings beneath his bleary eyes, his blond hair was dishevelled. He looked as if he had not slept well for days. They shook hands, and he told Paul to sit down. He described for him in detail what had happened since he moved to the house and the fear that drove him to the brink of madness. but the doctor didn't seemed moved. His boredom was growing with every passing minute.
"How can I help you?" he asked.
"Please let me sleep on the ward a day or two till I feel better," Paul said.
"You're are at the wrong place," the doctor said. This is neither a hotel nor an accommodation agency." His monotonous voice sounded as if it belonged to a robot, devoid of any human feelings.
Impotent rage rose in Paul. He imagined smashing the doctor's perfect teeth so that in the future whenever he ate he should remember how badly he treated a patient.
"I'm feeling terrible, doctor!" His voice cracked. "If I don't get help I'm going to kill myself. I can't stand it any more."
"You're not sick. It's your own thoughts and imagination that are playing tricks on you. Ask a friend to accommodate you for a few days or rent a hotel room, and you'll be fine."
Paul opened his mouth to protest, but the doctor stopped him by raising his hand. "Do you know how many trauma cases we had this evening? Two stabbings, three fatal car crashes, an attempted suicide... And my night shift is not finished yet."
He got up and ushered him outside, wishing him good luck, but Paul didn't say a word. He thought, You swine. I pay my taxes, toil like a madman to pay my bills while you enjoy expensive dinners with your family. And when I need help I'm treated like nothing.
TO BE CONTINUED