It's not over.

In response to Sunday Scribblings #202 Ethic/ Ethical I wrote this short piece.

As the nurse called my name, mom rose from her seat to go with me. I shot her a look. I am thirteen now and I didn’t need a maternal escort into the examining room. After all it was only a sore throat. The odour of medicinal potions and antiseptics filled my senses as I followed the nurse down the long corridor. Nurse Myrna takes me to room no. 3 and slides my file in the tray on the wall. “Get up on the examining table, the doctor will be in shortly.” she tells me.
Left alone in the room, I look around. You’d think they would pick better posters for the walls, like Scott Baio or John Stamos from Tiger Beat instead of the colourful diagram of the digestive system or the inner workings of an ear. My throat was sore, like swallowing broken glass. I’d say it was tonsillitis but I had them out years ago.

The door knob turns and I sit up. Dr Lloyd’s hair is slicked back and turning grey on the edges. His square brown frames sit on the edge of his nose as he looks down at my file and asks me where it hurts. I think my mom fancies him. I think Dr. Lloyd looks like a greasy, athletic version of Mr Rogers with his crumpled button down, grey cardigan and plaid pants. As usual the tongue depressor makes me gag. His hands are clammy as they press against my neck and ears. I try to swallow when he asks. “I am just going to take a listen” the doctor tells me as he takes the stethoscope from around his neck. I wince as he slides it under my shirt and the cold medal touches my back. “I am going to need a better listen” he says. He is standing so close that his legs have straddled mine and he squeezes tight. I am feeling strange and grow pale. He begins undoing the buttons of my shirt. The numbness seeps through my skin to the very core of my being. The separation is ethereal.

My shell is left on the table as I watch from the corner of the room. Rocking back and forth, arms clenched tightly around my knees. It will be over soon.