n o t e : please click the flag before reading. this excerpt is a rewrite of the following project: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/744218495. t h e⠀d i s e a s e : I step into the clinic’s waiting room, shivering as I look around. It’s much less nice than the hospital lobby is, but it’s still busy, with handfuls of people scattered in tawny plush chairs around the edges of the room. The walls are painted a deep turquoise, in a way that’s supposed to be calming, but really isn't. The room is cold and monotonous, and all of the furniture residing in it is painted a bleak shade of tan. All of the air’s been sucked out of the room, silent and strong with the smell of antiseptic that fills the entire hospital. I let the door close behind me, hesitant to walk in any further. There are already so many people sitting in the room silently; most of them are older than me. I don’t look at anyone for too long. Everyone seems… nervous, like sitting ducks - in anticipation of getting called back to the rooms, in anticipation of getting lab results back. No one likes getting their futures handed to them on a silver platter - or on a clipboard. I’m no exception. My hands are shaking. Maybe this is a mistake. Finally, I walk to the front desk, occupied by a blonde lady who looks tired. I shouldn’t be here, should I? That’s what the confused look that emerges on her face when she sees me makes me think. She’s not used to seeing someone so young all by himself. Maybe 18 is young in her eyes. I sign in, and my name is written so shaky that I can barely read it. I look up at the front desk lady, and she quickly replaces any expression she had before. She smiles, and I smile back, but I think she can tell my heart’s not in it. I wonder what I look like; out of place, scared, or… lost, even? When she thanks me and returns to her work, I go to find a seat in the corner, running a nervous hand through my hair. I look around again, and my eyes fall on a little kid waiting with his mom, looking bored out of his skull. Poor kid. I hope they're not here for him. There’s a seat a couple of chairs away from him, and I take it, sinking further down into it when I see I have time, staring at the appointment confirmation email on my phone. I stayed up all night to work up the courage to get an appointment, and now here I am, sitting in the hospital, helpless and alone. I should’ve told my mom. It’d be nicer than sitting here like this, and I’m not even sure they’ll let me get a test without her. I’ll have to tell her eventually, right? If I don’t, the doctor will, but right now, I can’t put her through that grief. She’s grieved enough. The kid, maybe 6 or 7, scoots over a seat, and then another. He stares at me curiously. I pretend not to notice. When I don’t say anything, he seems determined to get me to talk. So he speaks. “Hi.” “Hi.” I reply; his mom isn’t paying attention. I don’t know how she’d feel about her son talking to a random teenager she’s never met. “I’m Tyler… Do you like hockey?” He asks. “I’m Ryan.” I put on a smile. I don’t think my heart’s in it this time, either, but if Tyler noticed, he doesn’t tell me. “I do. My best friend plays.” I like kids; I don’t mind that he talks to me. It gets my mind off of the reasons I’m here. My symptoms are only getting worse: the blood in the sink, the coughing, the constant pain in my chest. If I ignored the symptoms, would I be able to move on with my life? If I ignored them, would I even have to be here? “Me too.” He smiles, and pauses, looking over to see if his mom is paying attention. Still, she isn’t. Tyler turns back around, and hesitates, before asking, “Are you sick?” It’s another reminder of the disease. Chronic bronchitis, the doctors called it. The disease that took my favorite person in the entire world away. The disease that my mom moved us to Maine to get away from. “Yeah.” The disease my mom hates with all of the poison in her body. I don’t know if she’ll ever cope knowing the truth about this visit. Because the disease that killed my dad is the disease I think I have. “I hope you feel better soon.” It’s all catching up to me, no matter how fast I run, and I think it’s getting worse. Worse to the point that my lungs won’t work anymore and I will no longer be able to run from it as I could before. “...I hope so too, Tyler.” f i n . c r e d i t s : music - ylang ylang writing - / book - the shadows beneath us
