Grim Tales for Gruesome People

Thanatophobia

I'm in the bathroom, one foot on the toilet seat, my arms almost contorted because I'm trying to catch the light in my wife's make-up mirror. It's frustrating; I know it's there, somewhere on the back of my neck, buried in the crease beneath my hairline. When I brush it with a fingertip, it reminds me of a tick I once found on a trek into Bulgaria's Rhodope Mountains. If only Alan was here to slather it with Vaseline, pluck it out with a pair of tweezers he reserved for chronic, ingrowing facial hairs and say: "It's okay, John; I got the bastard!", then laugh and reveal the blood speckled evidence on a scrunched up sheet of tissue paper.

But he's not. 

And you can't remove a melanoma with tweezers.

*

When I join my wife on the settee, she complains that the towel around my waist is still damp.

"Look at my neck," I say.

"John, we've been over this."

"Just look."

"No."

I pace the room, pick a book from the shelf, skim the pages and put it back.

"John, come and sit down."

"You've left your plate on the coffee table..." I reply. "How many times have I told you not to leave your plate on the coffee table?"

She looks at the floor. "John, please..."

"I'm fucking sick of it."

*

I'm in the waiting room, sat next to a woman who smells a bit like tuna does when you first peel open the tin. She's screaming at her son to come and sit down but the little blonde shit just hammers his fist into the Coca-Cola button on the vending machine and boots the glass and everyone sighs and mutters because he's making a right fucking racket. Even the new girl on reception looks like she wants to top herself. Last week, her hair was tied back in this neat little bun and you could tell she'd spent forever doing her make-up. Now, she coughs into her sleeve and cradles her coffee in two hands like a fucking tramp.

I take out my phone and delete a message from my wife, play a few levels of Candy Crush.

The speaker buzzes: "Mr Atkins, please."

*

After, outside, I light up and get into my car, crack a window, catch the end of a song I usually like but now makes me want to tear my ears off. Doctor said the thing on my neck was a skin tag; said it would fall off once the tissue had twisted and died from a lack of blood supply.

There's no need for a biopsy.

I flick the tab and watch it fizzle out in a dirty puddle, then punch the steering wheel until the skin starts to scrape away from my knuckles.

*

At work, Alice holds my calls until lunch. My heartburn's playing up. The results from my gastroscopy came back clear but the letter I got from the hospital said to stop taking Omeprazole for two weeks before the operation and I can't remember if I did. It says on the Internet that proton pump inhibitors can change the lining of the cells that occasionally develop into oesophageal cancer.

Phone goes: "Hi John, I've got Daniel Atkins on the line."

"I said to hold my calls."

"I'm sorry, John. It's just... it's nearly five."