Writer's Block [Gypsy & Crusade]

[Crusade]

Jerry Brockers had always been a little off. From his upbringing in rural Kansas to his choice to forego college despite his exceptional grades, he'd never been the type to take the road most traveled. His parents were a product of the hippie generation and had moved to Kansas from San Francisco when he two to try their luck at farming. They struggled mightily to keep the farm afloat, taking out a second mortgage, scaling back just about everything just so Jerry would have some food on the table. To say they were eccentric would be putting it mildly. They should have been fucking millionaires, though, since Jerry could have sworn they were the sole force behind the whole organic, holistic trend that swept the nation like wildfire.

Because of his parents, Jerry was told from an early age to embrace his creative side. He started reading early, often riding his bike to the library in town, taking out books two or three at a time. He'd lock himself in his room until he'd finished entire books. He would study the way the greats wrote, from Steinbeck's sprawling prose that spoke to the working class, almost as if it was written about the struggles his own parents endured, to the chilling science fiction of Ray Bradbury. Before he was even a teenager, he knew what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He idolized writers who could whisk him away from that small farm in Kansas to a whole new place in time. He wanted to be that same source of freedom for others.

Because of his attention to detail and his almost photographic memory, Jerry never struggled in school. His grades were so impressive that Ivy league schools took no time in sending him acceptance letters. But Jerry, being the road less taken sort, decided to give up on college, feeling there wasn't much he could learn there to hone his craft. He'd already been writing short stories, submitting some to small publications who were showing an interest in how polished he was for someone so young.

He wrote semi-biographical stories musing about paranoia, reclusiveness, and his fear of dying. He was very candid for someone who had so little interaction with the outside world. When he finally finished his first novel, a hard, harrowing journey through the mind of a crippled man, Jerry finally received the accolades that would give him the validation he wanted. It was his career. It was what he was supposed to do.

Shortly after that initial success, Jerry moved from Kansas to the Pacific Northwest. He settled into a cabin in Oregon, living off the earth the way his parents had taught him. He had two more novels published, both receiving a good amount of fanfare and success and a large publisher, Kronos, signed him on, setting a deadline for the end of the year for his upcoming novel. And that would be Jerry's undoing.

The author found himself with a case of writer's block that was debilitating. Sitting in front of his computer screen, he would dose off, waking hours later with not a single thought. He would write chapters and then erase every word. He found he couldn't focus for long, taking long walks around his property to try to find just the slightest inspiration. He'd never had any sort of deadline. Knowing he needed things by the end of the year put a seed of doubt in the back of his mind. He was working for them, not for himself. The pressure crippled him.

Deciding there could only be one remedy, Jerry drove out to Portland and got himself a treasure trove of illegal and prescription drugs. He took them back to his cabin and started taking everything from Adderall to cocaine to something as innocent as caffeine pills. His focus was greatly improved, but that was just about all that did. His writing suffered and he knew it. He was depressed, frustrated and the loneliness was starting to affect him. The walls were closing in on him.

He was delirious. Finding himself having a conversation, an in-depth one at that before coming to the realization he was talking to himself. He stopped taking drugs, but that only exacerbated the problem. The withdrawals tormented him. They taunted him. The drugs felt like his only friend. The only one he could turn to in a time of need. The novel was only a quarter finished as the deadline loomed. Turning to cocaine, Jerry was wired as the day turned into night. He felt like he was finally finding his way and he attributed it to the feeling of invincibility that white powder gave him. So he took more...and more...

In and out of consciousness, Jerry managed to call for help. When he finally came to, he was back at home, but he found he wasn't alone. He was in bed, in a grey t-shirt and sweat pants. His head ached and his mouth so dry, he couldn't even muster enough saliva to spit. He let out a groan as he turned from his side onto his bed, stretching out his arms over his head. He was nauseous, temples throbbing. The light that glinted off of the snow outside his window was so bright, Jerry could hardly keep his eyes opened. He remembered the night he'd really found his rhythm, but that was all he remembered. The rest of the time between then and where he found himself was a complete blur.

 

[Gypsy]

"Found unconscious in his home alone after a distress call he phoned in himself. Increase in heart rate, blood pressure and metabolism. Possible seizure. Rapid breathing, tremors and loss of coordination. Symptoms of a drug overdose; of what kind… well, it's too much to determine. Looked like he ingested an assortment of pills and tablets. The traces of white in his nostrils implied cocaine. Needed to be pumped. This guy was lucky as hell to still be alive when we got there, I tell ya. Hopefully, he's fortunate enough to live through this."

Delilah Haswell recalled what the paramedic who brought Jerry Brockers into St. Xavier's narrated whilst attending to the sedated, unconscious man. The bustle of activity that had ensconced them earlier had subsided after transporting the patient back to his home by order of his manager. It was a curious case, she admitted, though she had no right to question it. From what she gathered in this turn of events, she needn't answers anyhow. It was crystal clear even without an orientation from the hospital.

Kronos didn't want to have their upcoming fledgling, Jerry Brockers, caught in a scandalous admittance in a hospital due to a drug overdose, nor did they wish to be desecrated by the media if they ever found out about it.

Such was the reason why Delilah found herself in Jerry Brocker's abode as his private nurse, ridding the oxygen mask from the patient after the tubes that had been attached to him to purge the toxic substance out of his system were removed. Witnessing cases like this always disheartened her, knowing that someone chose to end their own life in this method. What was even more dolorous was the fact that he was put on house arrest until his recovery just to fortify the reputation of his publishers. How they could be so cavalier about a human's life vexed her so.

"Doesn't he look familiar?" Lewis Tarley, a young stalwart nursing aide who resembled an eager puppy once elated, quirked up beside her as she wholly managed to stabilize him, now only doing rounds to make sure Jerry was recovering. He had assisted her throughout the transfer from the hospital to his home, redressing the patient from the hospital gown to his clothes whilst she conversed with the manager.

"No, not really." Delilah replied with a shake of her head to support her little, white lie, plucking the clipboard which enclosed his data. Technically, she hadn't recognized Jerry at all so it was hardly a fib. Perhaps that could be accounted to the fact that she wasn't exactly up to date with the news in regards to the literary industry. Thus why, if he was actually a renowned author who was featured on television, she would still completely be oblivious.

"Seriously?" He reiterated, intently scrutinizing the bearded man prone before them. "I swear I've seen his face somewhere."

"I doubt it—" Her words were interrupted as Lewis clapped and gasped, awaiting a eureka that, unfortunately, did not arrive much to her dismay.

"He's that Jerry Brockers!" He exclaimed, a triumphant grin apparent on his face. "He was that bestselling author! Took the industry by a storm with that book about a crippled man."

As if to make sure Lewis's statements were accurate, Delilah glanced down at the clipboard. "Maybe, maybe not," she shrugged nonchalantly as she slipped the board on the foot of the bed, performing minor adjustments on the patient as she glanced at her watch. "He's just a normal patient to us for now. Anyway, don't worry about it. Go on home and enjoy your weekend. I can take it from here. I've to make lunch for him before the anesthesia wears out."

At this, she ushered the aide out and left the room as well, heading down to the kitchen to collect a meal for her charge after consuming a brunch herself. Something she missed quite often in periods like this. She took this solitary hour to write on her journal whilst partaking on a chicken sandwich and fruit salad she brought on the way to the cabin.

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• • October 3
    Day 1, 11:04 AM
    I've never been a private nurse before, but I am now to Jerry Brockers, in an isolated cabin in the outskirts of Oregon nonetheless. He's a writer, I think, who tried to OD himself with drugs, but ended up changing his mind and calling for help. It's a good thing it wasn't too late. Here's to hoping I won't crack under pressure of being alone.

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Strolling back to Jerry's room with a meal tray in her hands, her features lit up to see her charge awake. Inhumed as he was in his bed, Jerry was undoubtedly a piteous sight to behold, likening him to someone who had lost everything he valued and loved in the blink of an eye. She did not show this emotion on her face, however, opting to school her attributes into one of amicability instead as she approached him and pulled out a table to set the tray on.

"Good morning, Jerry," she greeted him, standing by his bed side to observe him properly as she offered a glass of water. "I'm Delilah Haswell, a nurse assigned to you to oversee your recovery. You were admitted in St. Xavier's two days ago before you were transferred back here when your manager requested it. You were quite a mess when you first went in. You're okay now, though, hopefully. How are you feeling?"

 

[Crusade]

Jerry was a stranger in his own home. The cabin felt foreign to him as he lay there, his stomach in knots and his heart beating unsteadily. He couldn't formulate any semblance of a rational thought, his mind turning to all those lines of cocaine he'd done earlier. He wanted it again. He itched for it. He wanted so badly to just lose himself again, to make the pain go away. But, he was immobilized. It wasn't that he couldn't move. It was that every movement felt like trudging through quicksand. Even just the simple act of rubbing his beard, a nervous tic that usually came while writing, felt almost impossible.

He still couldn't wrap his head around what happened. Not being in his right mind was terrifying. It was like renting out a body, or even worse, having someone rent out his. He wanted to scream, to break the deafening silence that shrouded him, but no sound came. The only break in his mental meltdown was the sight of a woman entering his room carrying a tray. He'd been so catatonic prior, he hadn't noticed her before. Or had he been sleeping? Everything was such a fucking blur.

When she approached, his eyes widened. His body, not moving a muscle, took in the sight of her. She was the first person he'd actually been able to see. It took a moment to process who she was, but all that stuck with him was she was a visitor in his home. A very much unwanted visitor. His cabin had been a place of solitude. It was nestled into a heavily wooded, heavily secluded tract of land. It could only be accessed by a series of long stretches of low maintenance, gravel roads, the kind that were obnoxiously bumpy and kicked up all sorts of dust as they were driven over.

Jerry had only ever had his manager at the cabin. He'd been asked by magazines to open the cabin to them to show where the talented writer found his muse. His manager, Wallace, encouraged him to do it. He said the press he would have gotten would've been well worth the grief of having a camera crew parade around his place like he was on an old episode of MTV Cribs. He shuddered at the thought and made it clear that no one was going to be taking photos of his cabin.

So, why was this random woman strolling into his bedroom? If he'd been thinking rationally, his first thought would have been that she was a nurse. Nothing clicked as she spoke. The words hung in the air as if suspended by some unseen force before just floating off. He couldn't process what she was telling him.

Delilah...

St. Xavier's...

Recovery...

Jerry tried to make sense of it. He saw the tray of food and almost vomited. His stomach was so uneasy, his head was throbbing. He wanted nothing to do with the food or the woman. He needed to finish his book. The book. Yes! The book! How had he forgotten? Eyes widening, Jerry reached out, grabbing hold of the woman's arm firmly, his body shifting. It was the most he'd moved in what felt like weeks, but was probably more like hours. In the process, he'd knocked the water from her grip and the sound of breaking glass beside his bed made him jump, his grip on her arm tightening in response. Some of the water had doused the sheets on his bed, but he paid it no mind.

"The deadline! Get me to my computer. Now!" he told her. He hadn't a clue who the fuck Delilah was or why she was bothering him, but with his mind settled on his book, he knew what he had to do. It was the book that was going to propel him into superstardom and all he could think about was the deadline and the fact that he needed to work. He didn't know what the date was, but damnit, it was close. It loomed so large, it was the only reasonable thought he'd had since he'd regained consciousness. And if this woman was going to impede on his personal space, the least she could do was help him to his writing desk situated near the window.

 

[Gypsy]

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 and—nevermind, 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 if—"Crap!" 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.