Blackout. [COMPLETED]

Autumn.

I sat on the seats around the stadium and watched a gym club as they jogged around the track in unflattering brown shorts and headbands. I was in a large brown coat, which matched their unfortunate attire, with the hood pulled up. To say I looked dodgy and suspicious would be an understatement - I'd been coming back to this exact seat almost all day, every day, for the past week. I just came to think, and it seemed to work. Watching the flailing arms of sweaty children seemed to put my mind at ease.

Austin and I had talked about going to the doctor to find out why I had my blackouts, and I'd agreed. I'd spoken to David about it, and he was less keen, but was eager for me to get better and return home.

On my eighth day at the stadium, after one of the coaches came over to me to ask if I was 'mentally stable' (to which I answered "No") and a 'sexual predator' (to which I also answered "No"), I decided to leave and finally pluck up the courage and avoid prolonging my visit to the doctor any longer.

The walk to the doctors office was worse than I expected. As I saw it approaching I genuinely feared that any second I'd disappear. What if my blackouts were caused by fear? If they were, I was a goner before I reached that door. Unfortunately, my palm reached the cool perspex and everything stayed annoyingly real as I pushed the door open. 

"Hey," I muttered, approaching the front desk. "My name is Ayla Mae, I, uh-"

"Oh, your appointment isn't for another 12 minutes. Would you like to take a seat over there?"

My appointment? Austin had already booked me an appointment? Probably so that I couldn't back out and run off. The bastard. I sat on one of the firm chairs and slid my feet across the linoleum floor. All I could smell was disinfectant and mothballs. 

I watched the clock for the entire time I was waiting (which was actually 27 minutes), before a man left a room coughing and wheezing and indicated it was my turn to enter. I squeezed past him as he had a small asthma attack in the doorway, and entered a small room with a man who was taller (and thinner) than any model on the catwalk.

"Hi, I'm-"

"Ayla Mae, I know, yeah," he said, flipping through a clipboard. He pointed to a blue plastic bed with tissue covering the length of it. I was a bit taken aback by his rudeness but I couldn't really blame him seeing as there was still a coughing and wheezing man replacing the door to his room.

The fan in the corner slowly and pointlessly swayed from side to side, creating a slightly unpleasant breeze in the room, making me cautious of the germs that were everywhere.

"So you blackout all the time?" he asked me, sticking the end of his biro into his mouth and twirling it in his teeth.

"Well, no. Not all the time. And the frequency isn't really the issue, I just want to know why I have them."

"Oh, I can tell you why," he said, shrugging. "You have a tumor. It's the only reason for it. They'd easily stop if you just removed it." Just removed it? Like popping a spot? Well, go ahead doctor, pop my damn spot.

"Will I remember everything afterwards?" I asked eagerly. He took a deep breath and shrugged, still chewing on his pen.

"Who knows, we'll have to wait and see. Risk of death, 1/1000 approximately."

"There's still a risk, then," I answered, my eyebrow raised.

"Isn't there always? There should be a risk of death sign on a kettle. No need to be scared."

I took deep breaths of the slowly undulating air and nodded. Not that he'd asked a question, just to convince myself I'd be okay. To comfort myself. There was answer to all my problems and it was a 'just', too. Not a 'well, it's difficult, but'. A 'just'. That meant it was simple. A simple answer to the most difficult problem I could think of.