At Death's Door

Chapter 2: Nightmare

They passed by the large open area lined with reclining chairs, each accompanied by a small machine at its side. They were all empty, aside from the one on the end. There sat a very large, blond man, sipping at a juice box, as blood flowed from the tube attached to him down to the bag that bobbed back and forth on the machine.

The man's face lit up when he spotted Elta and her mother. Elta thought he was smiling, but she couldn't be sure; his large red beard obscured most of his mouth, but his eyes were crinkled and sparkling.

"Gladys!" he bellowed, waving frantically at them like he was trying to get her attention in a crowd rather than a near-empty clinic. His nurse shook his head and warned him to take it easy, but his advice was ignored.

"Good evening, Mr. Thorsen," Elta's mother responded sweetly. She was patient with everyone except her daughter. "How're you?"

"Fine, fine... Just here, doing my good deed." He pointed towards the tube jutting out of his arm. "I have to say, I was a bit disappointed you weren't working donations today! There's been no good conversation without you..."

In the background, Elta noticed his nurse looked annoyed.

"You should stay and chat!" he added.

"Well, I'd love to, but I have some other things to take care of," her mother said, motioning behind her, at her daughter.

Mr. Thorsen's eyes slid from her mother's face onto Elta. He looked utterly surprised to see her standing there as if she had suddenly popped into existence. "Elta! How are you?" he thundered, quickly recovering.

"Fine," Elta mumbled.

Mr. Thorsen blinked at her like it was difficult to comprehend her weak one-word response. Her mother turned towards her—angling herself so her face couldn't be seen by Mr. Thorsen—and gave her a sharp look of reprimand. When she looked back at Mr. Thorsen, she was all smiles again. "She must be tired," she said; she was used to making up excuses for her daughter's poor behaviour. "I'm taking her to the break room, so I should get going."

"Alright, if you must," Mr. Thorsen moaned, hamming up his disappointment. "But if you get a spare minute, feel free to stop by for a chat."

"I will if I can. It is lovely to see you again, Mr. Thorsen. And thank you again for your donation."

"My pleasure," he said, puffing his barrel chest out with pride.

With that, Elta's mother gave a wave and continued down the hall. The walk to the break room wasn't long; the clinic was small, as the small town had no need for large, elaborate facilities. Having the large regional hospital down the street was enough; in fact, the clinic only survived solely because it was also the only blood bank for the region.

When they reached the break room, Elta's mother didn't go in. She simply stood aside, leaving the door open for her daughter. Saying nothing and dragging her feet, Elta obediently entered the room; she dropped her bag and stood stiffly in the middle of the room, signalling to her mother that she would behave. It wasn't like she had any other options.

Her mother smiled at her and turned back. "We'll come by and check in on you," she said with another sigh of relief. "I'll be back at the end of my shift. Will you be alright?"

With a sharp intake of air, Elta fought the urge to snark at her mother. Instead, she said nothing and just stared at the stark, cheerless room that was to be her prison cell for the afternoon. Most of the clinic's decor hadn't been updated for decades; putrid orange curtains hung listlessly from the room's single window, its glass marbled to provide privacy for patients who hadn't stepped foot in here for years. It contained a row of beat-up lockers for the nurses to keep their things in, a small table and a set of chairs, plus the fridges... the large, industrial fridges the clinic used to keep the blood supply cool. Since the clinic was so cramped and space was in high demand, the break room had to serve a dual purpose.