The floor was made of finely polished marble that glistened from the sunlight seeping through the window curtains. The surrounding comprised chalk white walls mostly hidden by posters detailing the human anatomy while a chair faced a large desk decorated with numerous tools and folders.
Harris was struck with panic as soon as the revelation dawned on him. His chest heaving heavily with terror, he frantically darted his eyes from one detail to the next. There was no need for him to study the posters that adorned the walls, he knew them by heart – he'd memorized them during his many visits here. They provided no guidance or answers, only further despondency.
However, it was the odor accompanying the room that unplugged the deepest of Harris's repressed memories, the aroma which pulled his heart into his throat, a reminder of an impending ill-fated end – of death.
He had walked straight back to the hospital. Dr. Roslin's office to be exact. Harris's eyes fell on the plaque bearing her name, scratched from the side which almost obscured the initials of her profession.
The brightness of the room coupled with the smell of medication always served to unease him. This was not good, he thought, he had no intention of returning to the life of pain and misery where all he had to look forward to was a painful death.
Harris made to return to the hallway when he realized he'd snapped the door shot upon entering. He grasped the knob and pulled hard to find a dark storage room. The hallway was gone, he was trapped.
Now panicking, Harris looked around for any clue of his condition. It didn't seem as if he was in a position of worry. During the end stages of the cancer, Dr. Roslin would generally have a nurse present to examine him. There was no one besides him at present. He felt well enough to walk and move.
Scratching his head absent-mindedly yielded a definite answer. He had hair, it had gradually shed off during chemotherapy, and only when all hope was lost did he let it grow back as treatment ceased. This meant there was no cancer. Not yet, at least. Momentarily relieved, he heaved out a sigh and let the calmness spread to his body.
"Once again we meet, Harris." A woman's amused voice reached his ears.
A short woman in her late thirties or early forties stood at the doorway. Still in lean condition, her brown hair cut just above shoulder length, her eyes reflecting the experience of her profession and knowledge, her skin not having lost the luster of youth completely but there were discernible wrinkles near the eyes.
A white doctor's coat wrapped over clothes clearly worn by a mother who was, or at least tried to be, invested in her family life. At the moment, Dr. Roslin's features highlighted her augmented sense of amusement that Harris was all too well accustomed to being around.
"I'm afraid so." He replied. There was truth in it, he was afraid to see her. There was nothing welcoming in her presence because he'd always felt uncomfortable at her lack of empathy, be it ludicrous or not.
"And what may I ask are you suffering from today?" Dr. Roslin asked as she crossed the room and took her seat, a folder in her hand.
"You tell me," Harris replied, trying to stay composed without giving way to any sign of fear.
"Sit down." She suggested as he had not moved from the storage room door, hand still on the knob. Harris did not reply. "Anything the matter?"
He cocked his head to the side to convey his derision. She, however, took little notice and rummaged through several other folders.
"What is it?" She asked after some time and when Harris had still not uttered a word.
"You do ask a lot of questions, I just realized that."
"I'm sorry?"
"Saying that should be a start, not an end." He replied, a scornful smirk breaking at the side of his face.
"I don't follow you," she said, her amused expression fading now.
"Well, then, you should start listening instead of mocking," said Harris, struggling to maintain the discipline in his voice.
"Is that what it is?" She laughed, throwing her hand in the air. "You feel bad over a few jokes?"
"Most jokes have a bit of truth behind them."
"So you believe that I'm jesting at your lack of ailments?" She said blandly, incensing Harris further. "If so, then yes, I am."
"So you think your patients are a joke, don't you?"
"Not patients. I only laugh at things that are funny."
"Then you find me funny?" Harris's voice reached dangerous levels. He balled his fists to stop them from shaking.
"I find the fact that you choose to spend your free time roaming around these gloomy hallways over doing something productive amusing, yes." Dr. Roslin admitted unapologetically. "But hey, the figments of your imagination are what pay the bills for my daughter's fees."
"Deluded, am I?" Harris burst out, nearly toppling Dr. Roslin off her chair in fright. "You think I'm feeding my delusions by meandering in and out here like a madman!? You're so clueless it's a wonder you even know which shoe to put on which foot."
"Now, there is no call for-" Dr. Roslin began, but she had touched Harris's nerve.
"There is exactly a call for this. You need a dose of reality. Stop living in your fantasy world. There are people out there who deserve help, not ridicule and scorn. Just because you make easy money off of other's miseries does not give you the right to mock them." He continued shouting. "You should be ashamed of yourself, sitting in that seat as if it were a throne passing judgments over the less fortunate, we don't all get to have an easy life."
"Just because I'm not entertaining your ridiculous assumptions over your health does not encourage this appalling behavior. I should have you thrown out."
"Don't bother. I can find myself out. I'm not dying yet." Harris slammed the medication door to make his point and made to leave.
At the doorway he saw a group of nurses nervously peering into the room, no doubt having overheard the heated exchange. One of them particularly grabbed Harris's attention. A short, young woman whom he recognized as one of the nurses who had taken his blood for tests; she nervously looked away from him.
However, it was not that which troubled him. He distinctly remembered his last conversation with her. She'd told him of her upcoming wedding – back in India – and that it would be her last day of work.
That had been his final visit to the clinic as Dr. Roslin had informed him of his negative test results, and jokingly threatened to throw him out if he visited her again. But he also remembered the months that had followed. All those days feeling the pangs of pain in his stomach, the difficulties he had with eating meals, the constant lethargy. All of those had been allusions to an oncoming reality. And it had all started here. Then this was that day.
Harris turned sharply to face Dr. Roslin.
"You." He said in an accusatory manner. "You didn't get my blood results tested."
"Is this a joke?" She asked with genuine curiosity. "You just had your blood drawn. The test result won't be back for another week."
"Sure, but you don't intend to have them tested. Admit it!"
"You're insane." Dr. Roslin proclaimed, and she might have a point, Harris thought. Because he could feel the expression on his face morph fanatically. But the reflexive action with which Dr. Roslin's hand went for the folder on her desk only confirmed his suspicions further.
"That's my file, right?"
"You have no authority to ask that. How dare you?"
"Give me my file." Harris held out his hand. Dr. Roslin merely stared at him with incredulity. Outside, the nurses had begun dispersing, no doubt calling out for help. Harris shook his hand and widened his eyes with intent. "I'm not leaving until I get what I want."
He drew nearer to her. She was definitely afraid of him now as she began taking steps back.
"Give it to me. Now!"
"Security." Dr. Roslin screamed. Harris charged forward and attempted to wrestle the file out of her grasp. She, however, resisted as they struggled over the folder.
He had only just managed to wring it from her hold when he was lifted off the ground by a tremendous force. Two men had seized him. Harris thrashed about to free himself as the file fell to the ground.
"I know you didn't test my blood, doctor." He yelled at her as the men held him over their shoulders. "This isn't over, I swear it!"
For a small moment, he could see clearly as his vision fell at the doctor. There was no mistaking it, it was a look of comprehension – she knew he was right – and was astonished how he had known. The next second, his head bumped hard against the top of the doorway, and was knocked out.
Harris woke up by the side of the road. The hospital behind him with its gates firmly shut. He rubbed the back of his head and moved away. A safe distance off, he studied the hospital grounds, his mind on Dr. Roslin.
She had never studied his blood. That had been the catalyst to his ultimate months of torment. A simple examination would have resulted in a different outcome. All that pain was due to the doctor's negligence.
The rage he felt back in her office rose up again and he had the impulse to storm back in. But he knew just when he could return. He needed the proof to implicate her, that file was at her desk. All he had to do was break in.