This Isn't the Zombie Apocalypse

15. I Never Did Like Doctors

Inside was better than outside.

It wasn't much better, but it was whitish and not red; so that was a plus. The lobby or sign-in or whatever had a massive carpet that nearly covered the whole floor, a sort of tan color, but it was obviously originally white—at least, it seemed that way. Pictures and posters hung on the walls, mostly depicting different medical conditions and their symptoms. There was one reminding people to wash their hands; next to it was an extra-large bottle of Germ-X. A few of them showed people with different diseases, all hoping for donations.

I mentally snorted at that. As if anyone would give money at a time like this. No one cared anymore. It was all coming to an end. At least, it sure seemed that way.

A woman—some lady who could sense something terrible had recently happened, who could plainly see that we needed some help navigating—pointed us to an elevator and told us to go to the second floor, delicately told us that there were some seats where we could sit. Taking Ana's wrist to pull her alongside me, we followed the direction of the pointed finger and ended up at a dull elevator. It was slow and creaked and squealed and trembled as it tugged itself up to the second floor, but it got us there, opened up with an ear-blowing screech, and spat us out.

Somehow we ended up sitting in a waiting area in some room with a glass wall that allowed us to see the passerby. Some were elderly, some middle-aged, others teenagers or even little kids. They all radiated this aura of sadness, a feeling that permeated the whole building and sucked away whatever Life was in here. None of them were smiling.

I wanted to give all of them the bird because of that. Because Sarah smiled. Right before she launched herself out of her some-high-number-story window. But whatever.

Well, then she had wept her heart out—and that might be literal—afterwards. But ignore that, because she had shown some sort of happiness in this depressing place.

(Also, ignore that I was doing the same thing that everyone else was doing. I could be a hypocrite. At least I realized I was being a party-pooper.)

Ana, next to me, wasn't much better. She was mumbling to herself, furrowing her brows and clenching her itty-bitty hands into fists so tight her knuckles turned white. Instead of being Debbie Downer, though, she was Crazy Steve. Making those Internet laughs every once in a while (the ones where you let out this deep breath through your nose and maybe allow a single chuckle to escape) and then mumbling along the lines of, "Who knew it was gonna be that bad?" or "Didn't see that coming" or "Well, that was new," followed by a snicker and a sniffle as she held back tears.

It was awkward, but through my own haze of feelings—which always and forever would suck—I leaned over to maybe, sort of comfort Ana; in return, she slapped my hand away, pinched my arm, and told me to shove off because she really didn't much care for me.

At least some things were the same.

So we sat, waiting for something to happen or someone to appear, keeping separated by a grand total of three chairs and the small spacing in between.

Great. Fantastic. Really and truly. Morose was the new feeling of the year.

I just didn't happen to know until—oh, I don't know—I met Ana and decided it'd be cool to travel to a dying city. Yeah, that sounded about right. I only sort of acknowledged that the world was heading to the Not So Holy South, never really understanding until Ana threw a rock at Death and then promptly sent it off.

From now on, I will deny ever enjoying social interaction. It will make up for me not being in the loop about people these days—for neglecting to see how the world was going while I tried to run away from it.