Chapter One: The Waiting
Hospitals make me sick. I know that's an ironic statement but its true. Its over-powering air-conditioning, its plastic hospital smell, its sickeningly colored orange chairs, its boring pale wallpapers and the bustling of scary, hostile looking doctors in oversized, blue uniforms could make a dying person dead in an instant. Or atleast that's what I think.
My mother is sitting on one side of me, tapping her foot impatiently and my thirteen year old sister, Libby sits on my other side, an unreadable expression on her face. She's a year younger than me yet sometimes I feel like the younger sister.
I avert my gaze to the linoleum tiles where vomity-looking specks cover the entire floor. See, hospitals /do/ make you sick. Was this their attempt in style?
I can't take this silence for much longer.
The only sounds that can be heard are the shuffling of pages from the front desk and my heart hammering endlessly against my chest.
Libby makes a clicking sound with her tongue and then glances over to my mother, "How much longer, Mom?" she asks, "We've been waiting here for hours!"
I roll my eyes. Libby loves to exaggerate. Honestly, we've been here for less than forty-five minutes.
My mother shrugs her shoulders helplessly, "I have no idea, hon," she replies before sliding a ten dollar bill to my sister, "Why don't you go buy a bag of crisps from the snack machine?" she suggests.
Libby frowns, pursing her lips, "I'm on a diet, mom, remember?"
I don't understand Libby and her 'diets'. She's just like me; skinny as a toothpick but yet she insists she's fat. We resemble each other a lot. The same depthless, blue eyes, the same pale skin, the same small nose and the same full lips. The only difference is that my hair is a light, honey brown color while Libby's hair is the color of a peeled banana, blonde and curly up to her shoulders.
My mother gives her a tiny half-smile, "Fine then. Go buy low-fat crisps instead,"
Libby sighs as she takes the bill and reluctantly saunters off.
The seconds slowly tick away and I find myself checking my watch every few minutes. Why are they taking so long? It was just a few, strange-looking bruises I had that my mother wanted a doctor to check out. My mouth is clamped shut and my hands rest on my lap as I restrain myself from checking my wrist-watch for about the hundredth time.
Libby returns and she and my mother share the crisps among themselves. They offer me countless times but I'm too caught up with my thoughts to eat anything at the moment.
"Maybe I should go and check what's taking them so long," my mother finally says and I try to relax my stiff muscles. What I'm I getting so worried about? They probably forgot about me and my measly bruises and had a more life-threatening case on their hands. That's why they're taking so long. Mom will go, sort this whole mess out and then we will be able to leave this scary place for good.
Everything will be okay, I remind myself as I lean back in the orange waiting chair, exhaling and inhaling slowly to calm my tense nerves.
My mother is about to get up when an unfamiliar man strides over in our direction. He looks to be in about his mid-thirties, wearing a dazzling white doctor coat. As he gets closer I can read a small nametag on his chest pocket saying: 'Doctor Narford: Oncologist'
Even though he wears a friendly smile on his face I can see the pain clearly in his eyes. This can't be good.
So this is my first story.
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