I am not sick, really I’m not. Not like these others. I’m only here because my girlfriend said I ought to get it checked out. You don’t need an appointment, you just turn up at the surgery and join the queue.
I will be all right. It’s probably nothing. Cathy felt something when we were in bed last night. I am not sick. I can’t be, I’m not even thirty. I have a life. We’re getting married next summer.
Who are these people? I don’t belong here. What’s wrong with that one? She seems perfectly all right to me. Well, apart from the bright red hair. But that’s not a disease, she’s done that from choice. Must be sixty if she’s a day. What’s she thinking of? Oh, of course … maybe her problem’s not physical, it’s …. Well, you know. What are we allowed to call it these days? I can’t remember, but I know we mustn’t call them ‘crazy’.
Oh no, she’s seen me looking. Her eyes are almost as red as her hair. Been crying? No, I don’t think so; she’s definitely ‘on’ something.
She’s staring. She is. Look. It’s like they’ve popped out on stilts. Please, no please, don’t talk to me. I don’t want to know. I didn’t come here to talk to some crazy, sorry mad … Oh shit! She’s smiling. At me. Help. Help. She opens her mouth. Smiles again. Speaks. ‘So,’ she says. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
Suddenly, I can’t stop sobbing.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 