Always and Forever

Chapter 5

"Excuse me? Sir. Sir, you can't be up here. Get up. You have to go." The door was wide open as it had been left earlier that morning. Whoever was trying to get his attention must have noticed the obvious gush of wind rushing down the stairs and flowing into the floor below. Mark felt the light tugging upon his right arm. His vision took a while to focus but when it did it revealed a sharp-looking man. He had brown skin, blue eyes and a bald head. His muscles bulged out of his arms making it look like he was a part-time bodybuilder. 

"How did you even get up here, I mean . . . weren't the doors locked?" Mark stared blankly at the man like he hadn't just asked him a question, "Anyhow, we have to get you back downstairs. As I said, you can't be up here. Do you feel able to walk, I can get help. Sir I'm going to need you to respond!"

"I can walk." So, that was it. Mark just got up and started going out the door. The security guard, eyes wide with awe just stood there. He didn't know what he had expected. By the time he had gathered himself, Mark had already made his way down the stairs and into the waiting room at the bottom of the hospital. Realising his phone was in his side pocket, he fished it out. the brightness of his phone shocked Mark almost as he read the colourful words scrambled out on his lock screen: 6:18 PM. 'Wow,' he thought to himself. 'I've been asleep for a long time'.

Can you really blame him though? With what he had been going through over the past, well month really. It all started some time ago when Jules herself told Mark about the struggle to breathe she had often had. Sometimes she found that when she was eating food she got bits and pieces of the meal stuck in her throat. She'd had to gulp down as much water as possible to clear her airways again.

But it all got serious one day when she was eating out in a restaurant. Pret a Manger in fact. She had been chewing the tough yet delightful baguette burger that she had a strange love for. She'd never had trouble eating that dish. The only trouble was how addicted to it she was becoming; but then on that fateful day. Roughly a week ago now. The incident happened. She was shoving the usual luxurious beef and baguette combination when she realised she couldn't breathe. It was happening again. She rushed to get water and the Pret a Manger waitresses were actually very helpful. 

Unfortunately, no amount of tap water could clear the bread dwelling in her throat. There was only God to thank that someone in the shop was first aid trained and could give her the Heimlich manoeuvre. Secretly (ever since that day happened when he had watched her struggling for breath), he had been thinking of fake scenarios where he hadn't been with her. Where there was no one else there too . . . 

Mark's silence was cut off by the soft, kind words of the receptionist, "Hey, do you have an appointment?" 

"I'm sorry?" The words came tumbling out of his mouth unintentionally. Mark scolded himself. Looking back what he had said might have come across as rude to the receptionist. And he had no right at all to do that. After all, she was just trying to help him.

"This is the patient's waiting room," the soothing voice tumbled out from between her plump lips. The way she said them made them almost seem like a question. "Normally people wait in here for their doctors to come and collect them." She leaned out of the small rectangular window in her reception and rested her chin on her hands. She had a wide smile on her face. But not a creepy smile. No. It was more of a . . . warm smile. "So, do you have an appointment?" This last comment was accompanied by a little nod in Mark's direction.

"No, I'm just waiting for my wife who's currently undergoing surgery. Simply waiting in the waiting room. That's what it's for no?" It was a poor joke, to say the least. But, the receptionist let out a laugh. Pitiful? Yes. But menacing? No, not menacing. The kind of one that was slightly flirtatious. The receptionist rubbed some hand sanitiser into her hands and popped back into her little hut.

"What's the person who's having an appointment's surname." Were Receptionists meant to be that intrusive? Can he not just sit down in there without being constantly questioned? What if she looked up the names and found out the surgery hadn't worked?

"World tour," Mark muttered. His eyes had been caught by a flyer on the floor and he was speaking so quietly the receptionist could barely hear him. A puzzled look crossed her face.

"How do I spell that, sorry?" The receptionist was looking in his direction, desperate to get his attention. Her attempts were in vein. He looked up suddenly, as if oblivous to the conversation he was just having.

"I'm sorry, did I say something?" He looked at her and she smiled back. A little laugh escaped her mouth. Slowly, her smile turned in to a frown as she realised the pure innocence on Mark's face.

"I," she managed. "Are you quite alright, Mr . . .?"

"Mark. And to be honest, no. I don't think I'm quite alright." He stared blankly at first, and then, realising how weird he must seem, faked a smile. "Who would be?"

"Um . . . yeah," she managed. "If you don't mind me asking, what's bringing you here today?" Mark could no longer hold up the fake smile he had painted a second ago. "O-Oh I'm sorry I'm being intrusive," she stuttered. "I'm not really meant to-"

"It's okay," Mark interrupted. He picked up the leaflet lying on the floor and tucked it in to his back pocket. He sighed, "I guess it would do me good to speak about. Well . . . everything that's been happening to me.

"Maybe that would be nice," she smiled. "But don't go telling me any confidential stuff. That'd get me sacked."

Mark took a seat and buried his face in his hands. "I feel like it's all some sort of joke. Or, some some sort of twisted . . . nightmare. And I'm so tired and achy I'm still to really understand what's happening."

"I get that. Sometimes I have to work all night and nothing feels real anymore."

"Right," Mark agreed. "It's like maybe this is all a dream. How do I know it's not?"

"You don't," the girl said. "But maybe, you know. Maybe that's the fun of it all. Think of a dream; anything you do  has no consequences. Don't you ever wish life was a bit like that?"

"Right now I can't stop thinking about that. When I was in my final year at university, I would have these dreams. It could be anything: I'd fail my finals, I'd get drunk at a party and do stuff I regret. There was nothing like the feeling of waking up from those dreams. The relief, everything's ok."

"I know what you're saying. But think of a world with no consequences."

'Rachel would be okay,' Mark thought to himself. In a world with no consequences, he could wake up right then.

The receptionist cut in and interrupted his train of thought, almost as if she knew what he was thinking about. "It sounds great on the surface, but think of it this way. A world without consequences is a world where anyone can do whatever they please. No laws, no nothing. It would be chaos. We make choices and live by them, it's how the world goes round."

"I didn't choose for Rachel to be this way," Mark cried out. Tears were streaming down his face."

"I'm so sorry, I -"

"Maybe it's a punishment from God for my sins. Maybe I deserve this." His tears were dripping from his hands down to the floor.

"No, it's not. Even God wouldn't do this." She looked at Mark and wondered if he was going to tell her what was really going on. "Whatever 'this ' is." She started typing on her computer before peeking at Mark over the screen. "Rachel Birch?"

"Yeah," Mark sniffled.

"I'm - I - I think think you need to go through now," she stuttered.