The Phantom of Scranton Hill

18

The next morning, Justine awoke with a smile on her face, the images of the previous night flooding her brain. She searched for him, scanning her surroundings, but he was nowhere to be found. The reminiscent grin slowly faded and she began to doubt if he was ever there. Maybe it was all a dream caused by some sort of concussion.

Like it was any other day at the job, doctors and nurses scurried down the lit corridors, the shut blinds covering the glass on each side of the door.

"Ah, good. You're already awake," one stated as he walked it. He held a clipboard firmly in his left hand and looked to be in his mid-forties. His hair was receding by an inch or two, and his brown eyes were dull and tired. Gray circles rounded his eyes and his lips were flat. The man wore a white trench coat and a stethoscope strangled his neck.

As the man walked in, Justine asked, "Did anyone come by last night? Or this morning even?"

Uninterested, he said a simple, "No." Obviously work was just work for this guy. He clicked his pen and began writing on the paper attached to the clipboard.

"Was there at least any noise or-"

"No." He stuck with the same reply, irritation straining his voice.

This made her think that it was all in her imagination. She'd thought she'd seen him before and he wasn't there. What made her think it was real this time? She'd heard of, and had, dreams that felt too real, dreams she'd never wanted to wake up from. And this was one of them. But she woke up. She was back in the real world. And he wasn't.

The doctor examined her. He brought a wooden stick to her mouth, took her temperature, checked her pupils, calculated her blood pressure. He analyzed the whole nine yards and she was fine. So why did she think she wasn't?

"Did you hit your head during the earthquake?" the doctor asked her, once again clicking his pen and scribbling away. She looked over his shoulder and couldn't read anything. For a second, she thought she was hit so bad that she couldn't read correctly. Then she remembered the stereotype.

Wow, she thought. It's real. They actually don't have penmanship classes at doctor college.

"Miss Powers?" he asked again, making sure she heard this time. He put his pen down and waited for her response. "Was your head damaged during the accident?"

She couldn't help but think that was kind of harsh.

Still, she nodded. "A beam hit my forehead."

He made a 'hmm' sound and shook his head. "You must be imagining things. But don't worry. It's a very common side effect after a traumatic experience," he told her, scribbling away on his clipboard again. "You must stay one more day so that we can run a final round of tests and check the corners. Then, if the rest of the results are acceptable, you may leave. Happy sampling." And he left the room.

He's scribbling so much, he better have some sort of art masterpiece when I get out of here, Justine scolded mentally.

A nurse walked in with a brown tray and handed her a blueberry bagel and some strawberry jell-o, hospital food.

"I'm not hungry," Justine assured her.

"Eat. Food good," she was assured in a thick Russian accent. Justine wasn't even sure she spoke English, or was a woman. Justine tried to explain that she didn't feel like eating, but once again, the response she got was a very robotic, "Eat. Food good."

Then she was left with her thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. The sadness consumed her. She really thought she had seen him this time. She felt him. But it was just another hallucination. Justine threw her head back, but instead of hitting something soft, she hit the metal backing of the bed.