Patrick and his New Friend

"..Mmm. You're a handsome one. It's a dead shame that you're so attached to this bed..", comes an unseen voice. Faintly, the feel of a hand upon your foot fades into existence, but there is no person around that would be doing such a thing.

Patrick was contentedly snoring away in his nearly too small hospital bed. At the sound of the voice in the room he snorts faintly, as though slightly startled. When his foot is touched, his leg jerks a bit, as though he were ticklish and his eyes flutter open, his grey eyes lucid and aware. Not seeing anyone in the room, he sniffs quietly and closes his eyes again.

The feel of the invisible fingers dance along the side of your foot, moving up as high as the ankle, but stopping to rest there. The voice that slips through the air is made of silk. If it were a color, it would be scarlet, and the tone is nothing less than an absolute purr, "..Wake up, Patrick. You're too strong for this. So strong. And big. And handsome..".

Patrick snorts faintly aa his leg twitches in automatic reaction. "Best. Dream. Ever," the big man says softly, opening his eyes and abandoning his attempt to go back to sleep. He glances around the room again before reaching over to the bed remote and raising the head of the bed into a more comfortable position for sitting. He rubs his eyes with his good hand and stifles a yawn with his cast.

Those fingers dance a bit higher up your leg before disappearing all together. When they surface again, it's on the hand that wields the remote in such a stoic manner, brushing over the skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind, "..Mmm. Patty, baby. There's no dream here, big boy. Some would argue though..". The voice, as sultry as ever, holds a tone toward the end that would make anyone think the originator was wearing a pouty look.

Patrick's eyes bulge in shock when the trailing fingertips he thought were only a dream continue their touch. With a hand made clumsy by his cast the big man quickly crosses himself, "In nomine patri, et fili et spiritus sanctus," he breathes quietly even as he jerks away from the left side of the bed, releasing the remote to drop back onto the table. "What the…fuck?" he swears in a slightly louder voice.

"..Mmmm! A man of religion! How sweet the meat of the forgiven!", the voice pipes up, a bit more excited at the sound of the utterance, even sounding sexually so, for this voice can belie no other sort of imagery, "..It is a shame to see you hurt, though. You could be putting that arm to so.. so.. much better use..". As the disembodied voice finishes off with this last sentence, the plaster of the cast begins to crack, fracture, and start falling off in chunks which make a mess all over your lap and the bed.

"Fuck!" the big man yelps with sincere fright in his voice. He jerks his broken arm off his lap and lets it dangle over the edge of the bed. With his good hand he seweeps the covers off his recumbant form and begins struggling to follow his arm off the bed, "What the FUCK is going on!?!" he says in rising voice.

A beautiful laughter of smooth dark chocolate and heavenly silk spreads through the air, as enchanting as anything could ever be, and mesmerizing to hear, even despite the fright that might onset from being spoken to by nothing. As the sounds of the light, teasing laughter sweep over you, it becomes much easier to use your broken arm, almost as if it were healing. When you've vacated, a light dimple appears in the bed, as if someone had sat down there, "..Oh come now, Patrick. You're not afraid of..little ole' me, are you?"

Patrick shuffles backwards on bent legs once he's vacated the bed, keeping his right arm slightly extended, the palm of his hand outward. "Bet I am," is the big mans wavering reply. "Please dear sweet Christ, tell me I'm still asleep!" His retreat ceases when he bumps into the far wall of the room, his eyes continiously searching for any hit as to the whereabouts of his…guest. Those eyes narrow slightly when he notes the settling of the hospital bed, but they don't stop their constant survailience.

The spot on the bed that is next to where the 'person' is sitting dimples several times, as if someone were patting it, "..Come and sit with me, Patty. You have nothing to fear from me. After all, I am here to /serve/ you..". The voice and the motions stop all at once, giving the room a deadened sort of silence, before she purrs again, "..And you'll need served. With that foot. In any. way. you. please.."

The lack of pain from his arm finally seems to penetrate his consciousness and Patrick looks down at his arm, his eyes finally ceasing their constant darting movements. Slowly he turns his arm over, making a gentle fist as he does so. For long moments, he stands stock still moving nothing but his recently broken arm as a slow smile crosses his face. Fianlly taking note of what you've said, he looks back up 'at' you, or at least toward where he supposes you sit. With slow hesitant steps the large man moves away from the wall and back towards the bed, as though acting against his better judgement. "Oh Christ," he whispers as he rounds the hospital bed and sits as directed.

"…Mmmhmhmhmhm…", the voice comes, as teasing as pleasant as ever in a sort of closed-mouth laughter, "..No Christ here. But I don't bite, handsome..", 'she' speaks, seeming to hold a certain touch of amusement to her perfect voice, "..Well, unless you want me to, Patty. I am at your beck and call, for what that is worth…"

Patrick settles himself on the bed warily, looking for all the world as though his ready to jump to his feet, injured foot or not. "What," he says, "What do you want? Who /are/ you?" He slowly extends a finger in your general direction, moving as though he really doesn't expect to encounter any resistance.

"..I just want to be here for you, Patrick. I just want…a bit of freedom, like we all do. Ironically, I have to get mine through servitude..", the voice explains, pouting again in it's tone. Your finger would encounter nothing sitting in the spot where it is poked, invisible or otherwise, despite what the dimple in the bed might portray, "..Who am I? If you must brand me with a name, you could call me Sonnielion..".

"Thats it," the big man states, "I've lost it finally. Off the deep end, a couple beers short of a six pack, gone around the bend. Absofuckinglutely bat shit nuts." He sounds suprisingly close to happy at this pronunciation. He slides a bit further back onto the bed, and flops back into it (unconsciously or not) leaving space for you to sit. "Thats a bit of a mouthful," he says cheerily as he sticks his left hand under his head, "How about I call you Sonny?"

There is a pronounced silence for all of two or three minutes, before the voice picks up again, "..You may call me whatever you wish, Patrick..", before lapsing back into that silvered lack of sound once more. This time though, it lasts for just seconds before the voice launches into a gentle bout of musing, still wielding it's exotic, often-playful voice, "..Being crazy isn't a burden. It's a freedom. You no longer have to live up to the social expectations of those around you, and people, with or without knowing so, tend to leave you alone..".

Patrick nods in a sort of absent manner, while directing most of his attention to his right arm, still half encased in the cast. He slides his left hand out from under his head, and pokes at the flesh of his arm with a questing finger. "I'm so nuts, I think I'm healed," he says with something akin to glee in his voice. After a couple of light pokes, he shrugs his massive shoulders, and brings the arm down as hard as he can on the edge of the side table, trying to smash the rest of the protective casing. "Yeah, yeah," he replies, "And once they figure out I've lost it, they'll give me all the chocolate pudding I want."

"..Mmhm. See? There is a silver lining..", the voice purrs. The dimple on the bed seems to lift, as if the entity has removed herself from that spot. Slipping into silence for a moment, the bandages begin to unwrap themselves from around your foot, like someone pulling them off, "..We need to get you out of this place. It's not becoming for such a strong warrior..".

Patrick keeps battering his arm against the table until the cast has finally fallen away. "Enough with the flattery, doll," he says while he batters the table. "even imaginary friends need to have /some/ self respect, and if you keep crawling up my ass like that…" He laughs loudly to himself. "Listen to me…well at least you're /female/." He lifts his leg up slightly, so as to make the unwrapping of his foot that much easier. "So, what'cha want?"

The bandages continue to remove themselves from Patrick's foot, each section getting flung to the ground with a lack of regard for the trashcan. When finally his foot is bared to the world once more, the velvet allure of the voice purrs out, "..You, my love..", before going silent again. There's a noticeable lack of pain in the foot. No scars, no holes, and not even a sign that just days before, a bullet that costs 1.75 per had slammed into the appendage.

"Take a number," Patrick says with a snicker. He turns his attention to his foot, wiggling it and the toes attatched with a look of glee. After a few moments of experimentation he slips his legs off the edge of the bed and hops to the floor. He takes a few ginger steps, as though expecting a return of the pain. "Well, looks like you're as good as your word." The big man reaches behind his back and unknots the ties of his robe, slipping it off and neatly folding it before placing it on the bed. "Now, for my clothes,' the naked man says.

There's no response. Nothing. Just you, talking to yourself. The foot and the arm are healed, though.

With a shrug, the man calls out softly, "You skip off Sonny?" Without waiting for an answer, he starts opening all the doors of the cabinets, looking for his clothing. He does take a few minutes to clean up the mess caused by the removal of his bandages and cast, taking all the detrius and tossing it into the trash. He even makes the bed, after lowering the head to it's usual position.

There's still no answer.

Once having found his clothing, minus his shoes, Patrick pads out of the room wearing a pair of hospital slippers.

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