“Who are you?”
“Me?” He asked, motioning towards
himself as if she could possibly be asking someone else. The other waiters in
the waiting room all seemed to be nearly asleep. Others were engrossed in their
magazines, or busy caring for loved ones. Of
course you. Who else?
“I just mean, you don’t really seem
like a patient.” She added, motioning around the room at all the elderly and
obviously ill patients.
“Neither do you.” He replied, smiling
matter-of-factly. Emmy turned her eyes back down, feeling despair wash over her
freshly at his words.
“Well I am.”
I shouldn’t be. But I am.
“So am I.”
“Of doctor Regan’s?” Emmy glanced back
up at him with surprise.
The stranger smiled sadly.
“I know. You might not believe it, but
a year ago I was fighting it hard. Chemo was hell, but I guess it was worth it just
so be able to say that I put up some sort of a fight for my life. But that’s
all history now, so I went back to a real hairstyle and some nicer clothes than
those silly gowns.”
His joking attitude masked him like a
bandit. Emmy wasn’t even sure if he was really serious about being a patient,
but surely, she thought, anyone who hadn’t
experienced such things themself would be able to have such a callous attitude when
speaking about them.
“I’m sorry,” Was all she could say. After
all, he’d obviously lost his fight, and been forced to settle for the inevitable,
a path she was likely to follow. Throwing her normal polite passiveness to the
wind, Emmy dared to ask:
“How long do you have left?”
The young man sighed thickly, nervously
almost, and looked up at her. His dark eyes were clear and his face was devoid
of any bitterness. How was it possible? Emmy felt her own resentment against
life and the injustice of the world weakening.
“Four months, if I’m lucky.”
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