Creepypasta Stories

And More

"No, absolutely not," I told the doctor. Dr. Murdock maintained eye contact with me. Whether or not he had any personal feelings about the situation, I couldn't tell. I always thought it was eerie how detached some doctors could appear, almost as though they were machines that could turn emotion and off at will. Hell, with some of the cases they faced, that's probably a necessary survival technique.

"You're certain?" Dr. Murdock asked. "You know his situation. Free health care is a wonderful thing in theory, but you need to understand that it will be years before his chart is even processed, and even longer until they approve or decline his kidney transplant. He came to America because he knew you were here. The tests are positive, you are a perfect candidate as a donor, and it would expedite the process greatly if you agreed to this donation. That's not to say this is his only hope, but you would be doing him a kindness by alleviating all the anxiety of having to find another potential donor."

"I don't even know this man. We're supposed to be related? I didn't know he existed until I received that damned letter telling me to receive a so-called 'relative' at the embassy. He's no one to me, why should I owe him a kidney?"

Murdock's lips tightened into a thin line. Ah, finally some emotion. So this doctor did have an opinion.

"You understand, Mr. Erikson, that there are hundreds of willing donors who are complete strangers to Mr. Fyrafemsju, who, if they were appropriate donors, would simply donate the needed organ for the sole purpose of helping another human being. They don't owe him anything either, and yet they're willing."

I scoffed.

"Fyrafemsju. Why the hell doesn't he go by first name when his last name is so jacked up? I almost choked on my own tongue tongue trying to say it. Aside from which, if he's family, then why didn't they come to America when my mother immigrated? Why would his family have stayed?"

"Fyrafemsju is his only name, he simply identifies as a member of his clan, a tribe derivative of the Sami people in northern Scandinavia; a tribe whose name, I assure you, is much more difficult to pronounce than his given name. And the short answer to your second question, Mr. Erikson, is simply that I don't know. I don't know your family history, I simply know that Fyrafemsju is in need and he came to you for help."

"Yeah, I know he's a part of some weird-ass tribe; the guys at the embassy gave me the background of his weird little voodoo mysticism cult, and I don't give a damn. Why is he even using western medicine anyway? He should just get his shaman to do a little rain dance, pump him full of peyote or whatever the hell they smoke up there, and leave me the hell alone."

Murdock closed his eyes for a moment. He was obviously trying to keep his frustration from showing. Without a word, he handed me a clipboard with a paper attached.

"Sign here. This is a disclosure indicating that you decline to undergo the transplant procedure and that we'll be free to continue looking for a suitable donor as soon as possible."

"Fan-tastic," I said and scribbled my name at the bottom of the page. Murdock wasted no time in leaving the room, and I followed suit. As I walked through the waiting room of the doctor's office, I saw my ass-backwards cousin sitting in a hard-backed chair. He glanced up at me, a hopeful look on his face. I winked at him.

"Sorry Pal, what's mine is mine."

____________________________________________________________________________

"What do you mean you said no!" Becca shrieked on the other end of the line. I actually had to pull the phone away from my ear due to how loud she was screaming.

"Why should I have agreed?!" I yelled back. "What is it feminist women always say? 'My body, my choice'? Well I'm invoking the same privilege!"

"You just gave this man a death sentence. You're practically killing family, you-"