Snippet of a thing:
You hate hospitals.
You hate them so much.
It’s completely irrational, but you’re queasy in a way that has nothing to do with the situation at hand. Telling yourself this is nothing, nothing like the time your dad died helps exactly jackfucking shit. Telling yourself hospitals actively save lives helps even less (didn’t save your dad). Telling yourself you’re a snivelling chickenshit doesn’t help at all, but it at least gives you some perverse satisfaction. All hail King Chickenshit, Karkat Vantas, bow down all ye sorry fuckers and lick your own ass, the world is about to go to hell.
It’s as you’re going down the hallway and catching glimpses of burgeoning families through open doors, that you realise you didn’t bring anything.
Should you have? You stop.
There’s a giftshop in the lobby. You have a terrifying moment in which you visualise buying Rose a balloon. Something appropriately… postnatal. She’d vault out of bed and beat you to death with it.
Yeah. Bad idea.