Cigarette Smoke // FILLIE

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f.w.

       "Alright, Finn, did you come in on your own or do you have a guardian with you?"

I slightly lean on the counter with the edges of my palms resting on the cold surface, swallowing nervously as I answer the receptionist.

"On my own."

Her eyes shift from the computer screen to my face, an almost disapproving yet suspicious expression painted over her features.

Though it seems she brushes my answer off as she goes back to typing out what information she has already from my past visits.

"Okay, and I see here that you've been getting treatment from Dr. Grante- do you already have an appointment set up with her or are you a walk in?" The woman queries with about an ounce of interest, obviously repeating a cycle of paperwork questions she's asked countless people before me.

"I- uh, I have an appointment. For three thirty, I think?" I suggest, hoping I remember the time correctly.

After all, I did schedule it a couple weeks ago. For all I can remember this might not even be the day I'm supposed to come in.

I watch as she clicks and types for a few moments before a look of recognition flashes in her eyes.

"You thought right! Anyway, it looks like you're a little early. She'll be with you in room 301 just down the hall, to your right." She explains while leaning out of her chair to point in the direction I'm supposed to go.

I nod, thanking her as I then back away from the desk and start down the wide hallway only occupied by the occasional nurse, doctor, and patient heading out.

As I walked down the hall, my eyes drew to a young girl- maybe eight or nine- attempting to use a walker to trudge in the opposite direction of me. Her head was wrapped in blue cloth to cover what I assume to be the result of chemotherapy.

A nurse and who I'm guessing is her mother cling to her sides, practically using the walker for her. With a swift wave of her hand she tells them to 'let her do it on her own'.

The two women reluctantly comply as the girl's expression hardens into pure concentration, her feet slowly inching forward with every quiet grunt she produces.

She's a fighter.

I turn to face forward again, but this time with a soft smile printed on my face. My eyes drift door to door, reading the numerous plaques that list the room number in a bold while font.

That's until I finally read the number 301. In an instant I redirect my course to the pale blue door that compliments the depressing atmosphere.

I enter the vacant room and immediately get washed over in a scent you can only find in the lovely air of a hospital. A horrid mix of dying loved ones and bleach stained into every inch of the room.

Closing the door behind me as I look over my surroundings, I slowly make my way to a cushioned arm chair in the corner of the room that resides beside the hospital bed.

There's something about laying or sitting in that hospital bed that make me feel as if I'm already on death row. And even if I am, I'd rather stay out of it for as long as I can.

Seeing as the doctor is probably still with another patient, I pull out my phone from my pocket and dial the familiar number set as the only favorite in my contacts.

I carefully lift the phone to my ear as my eyes scan the bland room shaped like a square, where the walls are painted in an even paler blue than the door with a grey streak along the top.