Fiction: A Fictional Narrative

Christopher threw his head back, letting the slow burn of the whiskey take its hold on him. Blinking he slammed the glass upside down on the counter and snapped his fingers. The blonde, a tall, five foot seven, laughed and padded her way to him. "Remember that promise I made you a few months ago, hmm?" She tsked her tongue, a glass bottle in one hand, pointing with the other. "Hmm...huh. You'll 'ave to remind me, love." His words a bit slow, almost caught between slurred and just mashed together, the blonde leaned on the counter, resting her weight on her elbows. A blonde curl tickled Christopher's arm as she poked his left bicep. "No mocking me accent, love." She winked, her thick, Welsh accent flowing with her words. He groaned and faked a frown. "But I totally nailed it!" She rewarded him with a loud, snort filled laugh and giggle sound. "We made a deal on the amount. You hit your amount--" she held her hand up, making a peace sign. "Two shots ago. Your cut off, baby boy." She patted his head, grinning. Christopher rose an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. According to the Medical Doctors in the Diabetes field, you should have no more then one to three, at a maximum, shots at a time in a 24 hour period.

You wouldn't beleive the amount of fools on cop shows who got arrested for being "intoxicated" when in reaility, they had been suffering from a low blood sugar, which, to be a wee bit fair, did share many of the same signs as drunkenness.

Pushing his stool back, the cracked red leather whining as he stood to his full Six Feet and One Inch of height. He waved two bills at the blonde. "You look lovely tonight, Rosalie." He spoke, winking. She laughed and waved him off. "I'm wearing a leather mini skirt and four inch heels. Of course I look fucking awesome." She half joked with him. Turning away, the silver medic alert bracelet shining on his right wrist, Christopher bumped into a male, maybe a few year younger them himself, 27 or so, possibly a bit older or younger. Cropped closed to his head blond hair, the brown eyed male nudged Chris back. It didn't take long for the male to throw a punch his way. Before Christopher knew it, he was on the floor, the salty taste of his own blood leaking into his mouth via his split buttom lip. The blond rolled out from under Christopher, a left swing tossing Christopher on his ass. Abnormal mentation, impaired judgment--along with his racing heart rate and his sweaty, sticky palms, his dilated pupils blown large and wide in his green eyes and the weird, jello like feeling to his legs, it took five or less second or Christopher's Medical training and his twenty two years of living as a Diabetic for him to notice his blood sugar was probably way too fucking low. A hand pulled Christopher up by the collar of his brown leather jacket.

When he came to his feet, his thick soled combat boots thumped as he righted himself. A face inches from his spoke but he barely was able to fully listen and consentrate as his vision turned a bit hazy, hell, the man in front of him could probably see the slight fogged over glaze on his green orbs. Probably guessed with his large pupils he was high or majorly drunk as fuck. When Christopher was finally asked his name, that good ole Automatic behavior, also a low blood sugar sign, kicked right on in. "Christopher. Christopher...um.." he paused, shook his head as if he forgot what he was saying mid speaking. "Lincoln...like the president. Or the car." He mumbled on. The words "officer" and "drunk" and "bar fight" skipped into his mind, half following what he being thrown his way, words going in his mind and getting lost. A shaky hand gripped the bar before he was being half dragged to the hallway between the exit and the men and ladies restrooms. "Wait wait--am I...under..arrest?" He questioned, eyes half lidded, a glassy eyed look to him now. Legs wobbly, like a newborn trying to walk for the first time, as if that was possible at that young of a age. Going around the hallways corner, he bumped shoulder first into the walls edge and was sent tumbled to scramble for his balance. Knees shaking, a weak palm slapped on the wall, barely able to hold himself up. And he finally answered the man's earliar question. "Christopher. Dr Christopher Lincoln." He spat out, voice a bit calmer and clearer now. Letting go of the wall, Christopher tumbled to his knees then turned so his back was against the damp, slightly cold and dirty hallway wall. On his ass now, knees bent, he shoved his right wrist towards Carson's face. A leather band with a bright, shiny silver charm hung on it, a bright, neon red medical alart cross on it.

The words "Type One Diabetic" craved in jet black ink. "I'm not drunk man! I'm buzzed at the most, maybe a bit...tipsy--maybe!" His eyes a bit harsh now, Christopher shed his leather jacket, leaving it in a pile on the floor next to him, to the left of his legs and body. Swallowing, Christopher tugged his shirt up a bit, a insulin pump, about the size of a old style flip, clipped to the top of his jeans. The clear, small and thin tubing going from the pump to a small, green clip thing, which was taped with a border of clear, cloudy white medical tape to his stomach, near his pelvic bone. He pushed in on the sides and disconnected from the insulin pumps tubing, the green tinged small plastic piece and tape still on his stomach. The tubing hung limp at his side as he messed with the insulin pump, his thumb pressing a few buttons. The device beeped before he turned his full attention back to Carson. "And that--" he waved to where the bar was, where the fight had been. "Was totally not my fault." He mumbled as he licked the droplet of blood off the edge of his bottom lip, to the left of it, and reached into his jeans pocket. Tugging a small round, tums like plastic container out, he shoved three orange, large tablets into his mouth, crunching. They appeared like large, orange, chalky looking, oversized childs candies. But the label read "Glucose Tablets" and they brought his blood sugar up in a hurry. Pulling himself up to stand, the clear, plastic tubing hanging from his hips dangled there as he came eye to eye with Carson. "We still got a problem?" He questioned, appearing a bit more alert as the sugar tablets worked in his system now, working quickly to steady his blood sugar out as fast as possible. "Look is blondie gonna file charges or--am I under arrest or what's happening? Because to be frank, my memories a bit of a haze, dude." His voice a mix of sarcastic and joking.