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narrative.
“Hello,” he smiled at her.
She smiled back nervously, hands fiddling with her bag strap. “A good afternoon to you, doctor.”
“And to you.” He mused, arranging the papers that littered his desk. “So, what’s the matter? Has your memory improved yet?”
“I–” she began, gulping. “–have been forgetting too much recently.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “That’s concerning. What are you forgetting?”
“Things that people tell me. I forget them almost the instant they tell me. I forget words too. A lot. It’s hard to keep a conversation going.” She said, taking a seat on a polished chair by the doctor’s black designer table.
He nodded, scrawling in his notepad. “Do you have trouble planning or solving problems? Especially anything to do with numbers?”
She pondered on it for a while. “Sometimes.”
The doctor scanned her, his expression unfathomable. She’s too young for this. He thought sadly, eyes wandering over her college uniform, dark brown eyes, and long wavy chestnut hair.
“How about confusion with a time or place?” He asked again.
“Recently, yes.”
Pursing his lips, he leaned back in his office chair, closed his eyes, and sighed. “All right.”
Confused, the girl eyed him as he stayed like that for a while, dread beggining to pool in her stomach. From his reaction, she could tell that it would be something bad. Something dire.
The doctor straightened in his chair and fixed his brown eyes on her grimly. “Miss Swanson, I’m afraid that you are showing early signs of Alzheimer’s. It’s telling from the sessions I have been having with you.”
She remained rooted in her seat, the doctor’s words clouding in her mind. She stammered, “Wh–What does that mean?”
He gestured to a model of a human brain that was sitting obediently on the chest of drawers beside her. “Alzheimer’s is a brain disease. It causes a slow decline in memory, thinking, and reasoning skils.”
She blinked, trying to keep her calm, panic coursing through her veins. She tried to stop her voice from shaking. “Is there a cure?”
“No.” He said pointedly. “And neither is there a way to stop its progression. But I can supply you with drugs that’ll hopefully treat the symptoms.”
Swanson blinked the tears away, suppressing a sniffle. “Okay.”
“If you’d kindly wait outside, Miss Swanson.” He said gently, standing up from his chair and directing her out of the office.
“Thanks.” She mumbled, her iron grip on her bag strap turning her knuckles white.
As soon as she stepped out of the room, she felt the tears that she had been holding spill out like a river. It took all she could to stop as soon as she saw Jerry in his infamous leather jacket and boots, staring at her worriedly.
“...Hey.” He greeted softly, ruffling her chestnut tresses affectionately.
“Monroe,” she giggled, trying to mask her grief. “As annoying as ever.”
The taller boy laughed her remark off. “Funny of you to say that, Swanson.”
As she snorted in retort, he waited for her to calm down before directing her face to look at him.
“So,” he began, hands on her shoulders, dark brown eyes drifting to her own, lined with concern. “Nothing serious?”
Her breath hitched, and she felt the happiness slowly drain itself out of her body. “Not really.”
His hold on her tightened. “Are you sure? I saw you crying.”
She tensed and let the tears go, and Monroe just let his arms delve around her smaller frame, wishing that she could forget her pain for once.
