I hate the clinical smell of disinfected floors of waiting rooms.
My dad's signing strange papers a the desk, nodding solemnly as the bulldog-faced lady in a pressed uniform whispers. Perhaps she thinks we don't want to know more about the gruesome details of the sloppy situation we've found ourselves in.
"Shitty smell, huh? I knew we'd be here sooner or later, I just thought we'd be here for you."
My brother sits beside me in an old armchair and belts out a laugh that shocks the nurse at the front desk, who swiftly presses a buzzer which in turn opens the door leading to a passageway that takes you to the unknown.
Only, I know where the passage leads. Years of memorising every step paid off, and I know that the tiled floors will take you to a kitchen slash dining area to your right, which doubles up as an 'activity room'. To your left will be the 'visitor's lounge' which is presented as a dull green area with mood candles and uncomfortable couches. I know because I've sat on them many a time. Opposite is a beige room with glass doors, pool tables and TV's. And there she sits, in front of a flickering screen , her wrists bandaged in her lap.
She smiles when she sees us, and I routinely smile a sad, pitiful smile. I've been practicing.
We've been her before - This exact situation.
We were younger then, but I remember.
The weeks of neighbours and family members bringing over home-cooked meals of pity;
the schedule of visiting hours we had to memorize;
the knowledge of our mother being in a mental hospital for attempted suicide.
This is familiar.
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Hi guys, expect more updates! Let's get this shit written! :D
YOU ARE READING
The Unfortunate Life Of Amelia Thorn.
RomanceEver felt that if you had to collapse into the deep abyss of death in a few minutes, you'd be pretty disappointed with the pitiful life that will flash before your darkening eyes? As if the years of life given to you were all wasted on pathetic love...
