The Man on the Moon (The Man Duology)

Chapter 23

My heart. It was about to burst. Why did I insist on coming alone? Splattering the beige walls with its red paint, it would surely explode like a handheld grenade at any second. Time seemed to just plod along, dragging its feet along the way. As I kicked my own feet back and forth, hugged by Ash's familiar ankle boots, my eyes ticked with the clock hanging on the wall. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. 

After I got bored of the wall, my eyes panned around the clinic. Everything seemed louder and brighter. The sun's rays caught my attention first, elegantly pouring out of the window, ricocheting from one of the blue, uncomfortable chairs and shining into my face. Shielding myself, I guided my gaze elsewhere. Although there were paintings pinned to the walls, you could tell that this was a clinic. It had all of the typical conventions that came with being a product of the National Health Service -- the machine that flashes the patients' names, the elderly hypochondriacs, the mothers and their screaming children. Proudly, a beaming man stood beside me. Only, it wasn't a man. It was a cardboard cut-out. He was dressed in a lab coat, almost as white as his teeth, complete with his very own stethoscope. Slicked back, his blonde hair hardly showed up against the white background. Towards the bottom of the cut out, next to his shiny shoes, read a quote from one of the doctors.
Seeing the cardboard doctor made me think of mine. What would they look like? Would they understand? Or, would they take one glance at me and unprofessionally scoff, thinking I'm an average teenager using the NHS's abortion service as contraception? I could picture it, my explanation tickling the tip of my tongue. Which would be better preparation: picturing the best nurse in the entire world, or the worst?
I decided to imagine someone who knows my story. She would feel it by tracing her fingers across the scars left from my father, practically healing the broken skin. Reaching into her lab coat's pocket and retrieving her pen, she would see the tiredness woven into my pores. When she would take a blood sample, she would flick her side plait to the left side and remind me to turn my head from the blood. I wouldn't need to tell her that my mouth resembles a desert. She would already know, as she would fumble with a plastic cup around the water fountain. She would be beautiful. I would see it within her brown eyes, and she would see it within the reflection of mine.

As the images slowly faded, my name flashed onto the screen. Room 5. Eleanor Parks. There I was, written in a virtual, red font. It took a while for me to gather the courage, and my spaghetti limbs, from the plastic seat, but I did it. In fact, I could do all of this. Right? Just walk in with no ambition for conversation, interaction or anything none medical related. I wanted to walk in there, have my blood taken, swallow the blue pill that they would present to me and walk straight back out. There was no time for chit chat or reasons. I could do this... As long as I didn't have to open my mouth.

The clanging of my boots ran down the hall. It was eerie; not another soul in sight. Like in a horror movie, the setting was isolated. In the distance, I could vaguely see one of the lights flickering. Although the rest of the corridor was on the brink of being in darkness, when the door to room 5 opened, I was blinded by its light. Despite the grumpy woman standing in the door way, it gave me hope. The light seemed to engulf her body, finding its way to shine for me. I couldn't help it. I broke into a sprint. Once I reached the door, my palms were crying. The door handle barely stayed in my hands -- it slipped through them like butter.

"Are ye Eleanor Parks?" The woman asked, her voice heavily intoxicated with smoke and a Scottish accent.

My throat closed up, making it impossible to utter a word. Instead, I just nodded.

"Okay, Eleanor," She coughed, kicking the door. "Take a seat. I will be with ye in a wee bit."

Straightening my shirt, one of Mum's older designs, I did as instructed. As soon as I saw the room, my shoulders collapsed. The boring, beige walls were copied from the waiting room, along with the sparkling floors and the plastic chairs. Attempting to cover the only window present in the room, a broken blind flapped in the wind. Filling the air, the sound of it struggling to keep in one piece set an atmosphere. Mesmerized, I couldn't keep my eyes from it. Like an injured bird, it admitted defeat and went through the motions of falling apart. Edging away from the broken piece of plastic, I rested my arm on the available ledge. Running my own fingers through my hair, I waited for the lady to return. My temper began to rise the longer she was away. Luckily, she returned before I made a complaint.