Next Victim - *Cough* - Patient?

• Gabriella Thompson, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2010

I walked in, nervous as hell, shaking with the irrational desire to turn tale and make a run for it. It helped knowing Dad was coming in behind me. Not because his presence held any reassurance of safety against these fears, but because if I turned around to run, he’d push me right back through that door. I took a deep breath on entrance and nearly choked, why was it that every doctor’s haunt had to have the same, antiseptic, putrid stink? Stare cast to the ground I kept walking, I couldn’t bear to look the receptionist’s sugar sweet smile in the eyes, forget about zombies and talking dummies, that smile was the sole creepiest thing I’d ever seen.
Something caught my eye, which was surprising, seeming as how I was looking at the ground. It was a paper clip. I gingerly sunk to the floor, careful not to touch anything else- it would take hours to get the smell out of my clothes- I clutched the clip in my trembling fingers and smiled.
Paper Clip = Distraction. The receptionist pointed to the waiting room, smiling that sickeningly sweet smile at Dad and I swear I saw him cringe. Maybe he shares my fears; maybe he’s doing this for me as much as I’m doing it for him...
I tried, but I ended up sinking down to sit on the floor after a minute on the deceptively soft seats. The paper clip fell from my fingers- twisted into a relatively straight line- and made a soft clink when it hit the linoleum floor. My attention was already recaptured by something more interesting, children’s magnetic, plastic letters. I smiled up at Dad, creating words was a much better distraction than twisting metal. Hands still trembling I began to move them, WHELP, PHEW, I swept a hand across my brow and whispered to him, “Phew!” He smiled back at me, such love in his eyes, it made me want to be brave, to make him proud.

“Daphne Rose?” Like they didn’t already know who I was.

I tried not to cringe away from the smiling man in his rumpled, striped shirt, it’s not his fault he’s the most terrifying person I’ve seen in the last year. He walked down the hall in front of us, oblivious to the sweat that dripped out of my every pore, of my quivering hands, the memories of pain I’ve always associated with doctors. I walked in, straight backed, petrified, sat at the closest chair and watched as the tall man in stripes locked the door to the outside world, effectively shutting us in my worst nightmare.