Dry Eyes

Adam suffered from a rare condition called 'Sans Lacrimae.' It meant that he couldn't produce tears when he was in pain or when he was sad. He had been like this ever since he was born. According to the doctors, radiation had caused inflammation in his lacrimal glands; thus they were damaged. You see, his family lived on the outskirts of the city where the government were still cleaning up what remained of the chemical warfare that had happened nearly two decades ago.

His parents didn't really care if he could cry or not. It just meant a less troublesome child to take care of. What they weren't aware of was that their complacency ate away at the young Adam. He didn't understand why he always felt the way he did. Stressed, unhappy, and unpleasant. Weddings, funerals, dogs dying in movies, he was immune to them all. As he grew older, the numbness grew with him. Adam couldn't hold a single job for more than a week due to weak emotional responsiveness. Fortunately, he had managed to latch onto one last thread of hope.

He rested his head against the glass window; his earphones were planted snugly into his ears, feeding him an array of miscellaneous songs. With each passing song, he counted the instruments and sounds which overlapped each other. There was a bass guitar, a keyboard, a saxophone, maracas, drums, and crashing waves in this one. The next had a synthesiser, an acoustic guitar, and a piano. Gazing out at the dark scenery passing by, he felt himself melting, melding, merging with the dark glass. He wanted to let it consume him, leaving an empty seat for another person. He wanted to stay on this train forever. His fantasy was short-lived, however, as he had arrived at his station.

He instinctively shoved his hands in his coat pockets as the cold air greeted him. Adam retreated from the platform and descended the stairs towards the underpass where it was warmer. He walked among the fresh horde of people who had either exited trains or were in need of one. The obnoxious sound of a saxophone echoed through the tunnel. It was a street performer. His upturned hat was glittering with coins. He caught glimpses of beggars along the walls, eyes pleading and weary. Adam knew he and his family were close to living like them. He was the sole reason why they weren't.

The cold air bared its fangs and bit into his skin once he reached the end of the underpass. He had only himself to blame for not bringing a muffler. No matter, he was only a few streets from where he had to go.

After he turned the final corner, he was met with the familiar sight of the looming, white building known as 'Sacred Heart Hospital'. As he approached the front entrance, he noticed several news vans lining the perimeter. Pushing the doors open, Adam approached the reception desk. He removed his earphones and tucked them into his pocket where his phone was.

"I'm here for the batch testing," he said, flatly.

"You are Mr Caldwell, correct?" she said after glancing up for a mere second.

"Yes,"

"Your form, please," she said without looking up from her desk.

You still need my form even when you remember my name?

He begrudgingly pulled out a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and slapped it onto the desk. The receptionist simply picked it up, unfolded it and scribbled down his name on a separate clipboard.

"Please wait in the usual waiting room, Mr. Caldwell,"

Adam ignored her and turned away, bumping shoulders with a nurse. He mumbled a 'sorry' before he disappeared down the hallway. When he arrived in the waiting room, several eyes were drawn to him. He paid them no mind and sat down in a vacant chair on the far right. Adam only concentrated on looking at the empty space in front of him. He didn't want to lock eyes with the others, much less hold a conversation with any of them. Adam knew exactly why they were all waiting in this room with him.