Post by Alistair "Stainless" Steele on Aug 5, 2007 21:15:08 GMT -5
The beast towered over her, casting ominous shadows over the morning sunlight. She stood firm before it, not backing down nor stepping forward. The sun was warm on her back as they stared each other down. She refused to blink, lest the beast take it as a sign of weakness and decide to finish her. The air coming from its gaping maw was stale and stagnant, as it began its daily routine of swallowing and vomiting the city’s seemingly endless supply of the sick and diseased.
After what seemed like hours of contemplation, she finally mustered the courage to venture forth into the belly of the beast. Closing her eyes tight, she held her breath and entered with a quick, nervous strut.
She jumped when its mouth snapped shut, and a wave of panic washed over her, threatened to sweep her away. She fought the urge to turn around and try to escape the unstable mass of people who crowded the small orifice. She wanted to run. Oh, God, did she ever want to just turn around and leave. But she wouldn’t let herself. She couldn’t.
No, she was here now, and she’d be damned if she would cancel yet another therapy appointment.
Vicki clutched her purse like a child would a security blanket, and cautiously stared around at the other mentally unstable patients who called this doctor’s office their second home...
Other mentally unstable patients. No, she was nothing like them. She wouldn’t allow herself to become just another hopeless drone who took up the doctor’s valuable time with nonsensical babbling about the pending alien invasion, or how the FBI was tracking them through a chip implanted in their skull.
No, she had a damned good reason to be here, she told herself. Vicki pretended not to notice a couple of the patients eyeing her curves. Rage bubbled in her stomach like an acid as she fought back the urge to vomit. How dare they attempt to violate her after what she’s been through! She gripped her purse with such a force that her knuckles turned white and, controlling her temper as best as she could, thundered to the front desk.
An overly large woman was seated in the rolling chair behind the desk, however it seemed the chair was lost beneath her girth. Short curly black hair covered her thick head, and wide-framed glasses outlined her bright blue eyes. At least, Vicki thought they were blue; she couldn’t really tell under the thick layer of make up that plastered the woman’s face. Sausage-like fingers tapped away at the keyboard, and Vicki thought it incredible that they hit all the correct keys. Vicki coughed politely to make her presence known.
Without looking up from the computer, the woman asked “Can I help you?” with a tone of annoyance in her voice.
“Yeah,” replied Vicki. “I have an appointment with Dr. Archer this morning. Can you tell me which room he’s in?”
Sausage Fingers rolled her eyes and sighed, eyes still glued to the computer. Her triple chin shook awkwardly as she answered, “Room 158,” and stopped typing only long enough to point a fat digit in the general direction of where she assumed the long hallway that led to the offices was.
Vicki followed her finger to the hallway in question, and after mumbling a half-hearted “Thanks,” spun on her heel and scurried past the prying eyes of the other patients and down the over-lit corridor. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights was muffled by the rambling and the outcries of the other crazies seated in the lobby. The hallway seemed endless, almost like the tunnel that they say people walk through right before they die. Still clutching her purse, Vicki glanced on each side of her to read the numbers on the doors that she passed. She could hear raised voices coming from a couple of the rooms, but she couldn’t pick out what was being said.
The hallway turned a corner, and she froze. Her steps became slower and more cautious as she got closer, as if she expected the rapist himself to be standing just around the corner. She panicked. Hyperventilation began to sink in as the putrid taste of fear crept up the back of her throat. He was there, waiting for her. She knew it. Backing up against the opposite wall, she crept along the hallway and peaked around the corner, awaiting certain doom.
A surge of relief shot through her once again as she gazed down the very long, very empty hallway. Vicki’s knees weakened as she fell back against the wall, a cold sweat glistening on her face.
“Fuck’s sakes,” she muttered, panting. “You gotta stop doing that to yourself...”
She ran a trembling hand down her face and sighed, and continued down the hallway towards her destination. She didn’t know how it was possible, but the lights down this section of corridor were brighter than the others. Shielding her eyes, her long red hair shimmered and bounced as she walked down the hall, becoming increasingly impatient with every step.
“Jesus, who made this hallway so fucking long?” she said to herself. Vicki threw her purse over her shoulder, revealing significant hand prints in the leather where she gripped it so tightly. She wasn’t exactly sure why she was here in the first place. She thought it impossible that lying on an uncomfortable leather couch, talking to some jerk off with a pen and a clipboard was going to help her cope with what she’d been through.
Fuming, Vicki didn’t even notice the suited man walking out of one of the doors until it was too late. She plowed straight into him, and sent his glasses and clipboard flying. He was knocked back against the not-quite-closed door, and it swung inward. He barely caught himself on the door handle as he fell, causing a hefty rip in his charcoal colored blazer. Vicki’s face turned blood red with embarrassment as she knelt to help him.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you!” she exclaimed as she gathered his belongings from the tiled floor.
The man got to his feet and brushed himself off, and inspected his torn blazer. “Hmm...” he said with mild annoyance. “And I just bought this jacket last week.” He looked at Vicki with warm brown eyes and tried to fix his disheveled thinning hair. “You really should look where you’re going,” he told her, half smiling.
Vicki nodded, her face still rouge. “I know, I’m...sorry,” she stammered. She could feel an awkward silence creeping in, so she quickly extended her hand which was holding the man’s clipboard and glasses. “Here,” she said, nervous. “You... um... I... I think these are yours.”
He nodded and took the clipboard in one hand, and replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose with the other. “Thanks,” he replied. Then, he looked around the hallway and tilted his head as if he was deep in thought. “Now... what did I come out here for?” he scratched the small bald spot on the crown of his head and sighed. “Oh well, I’m sure it will come back to me sometime.” he chuckled slightly.
Vicki found herself making a sound that she hadn’t made in a long time. She didn’t expect anyone to coax it out of her so easily, and it scared her for a moment to hear her produce such an unfamiliar vocal anomaly.
The man smiled, and broke into a bigger fit of chuckles. “You have a very funny laugh, Miss...”
Vicki composed herself and extended a hand. “McCarthy,” she replied. “Vicki McCarthy, and I’m very sorry but I was supposed to be in a therapy session with Dr. Archer ten minutes ago, so I have to cut this short.”
The man in the torn blazer laughed even harder. “Well, Ms. McCarthy,” he chortled. “Look no further.” He pointed to the lettering on the door behind him.
Room 158
Dr. M. Archer, PhD. Sc.
Vicki nearly choked on her own spit as she gasped. Coughing, she braced herself against the wall in front of her and breathed heavily. A look of concern mapped Dr. Archer’s face as he put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Vicki nodded fiercely, and in between coughs said, “Yeah, it’s...nothing....to worry about...” The coughs finally stopped and she stood up straight, panting. She wiped the spittle from the sides of her mouth and composed herself once again, raising a reassuring hand to the doctor, who took the hint as a sign to proceed.
“Well then, come in and make yourself comfortable,” Dr. Archer said, showing her into the office. Vicki followed him to a long, brown leather chesterfield and he motioned for her to sit—or lie down, whichever she preferred.
Dr. Archer sat himself down in a large, black leather armchair and, readjusting his glasses, took out his clipboard and began flipping through the pages of notes he had written until he found a new page. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pen, clicking the ink dispenser.
“So,” he started, smiling broadly. “Where should we begin?”
After what seemed like hours of contemplation, she finally mustered the courage to venture forth into the belly of the beast. Closing her eyes tight, she held her breath and entered with a quick, nervous strut.
She jumped when its mouth snapped shut, and a wave of panic washed over her, threatened to sweep her away. She fought the urge to turn around and try to escape the unstable mass of people who crowded the small orifice. She wanted to run. Oh, God, did she ever want to just turn around and leave. But she wouldn’t let herself. She couldn’t.
No, she was here now, and she’d be damned if she would cancel yet another therapy appointment.
Vicki clutched her purse like a child would a security blanket, and cautiously stared around at the other mentally unstable patients who called this doctor’s office their second home...
Other mentally unstable patients. No, she was nothing like them. She wouldn’t allow herself to become just another hopeless drone who took up the doctor’s valuable time with nonsensical babbling about the pending alien invasion, or how the FBI was tracking them through a chip implanted in their skull.
No, she had a damned good reason to be here, she told herself. Vicki pretended not to notice a couple of the patients eyeing her curves. Rage bubbled in her stomach like an acid as she fought back the urge to vomit. How dare they attempt to violate her after what she’s been through! She gripped her purse with such a force that her knuckles turned white and, controlling her temper as best as she could, thundered to the front desk.
An overly large woman was seated in the rolling chair behind the desk, however it seemed the chair was lost beneath her girth. Short curly black hair covered her thick head, and wide-framed glasses outlined her bright blue eyes. At least, Vicki thought they were blue; she couldn’t really tell under the thick layer of make up that plastered the woman’s face. Sausage-like fingers tapped away at the keyboard, and Vicki thought it incredible that they hit all the correct keys. Vicki coughed politely to make her presence known.
Without looking up from the computer, the woman asked “Can I help you?” with a tone of annoyance in her voice.
“Yeah,” replied Vicki. “I have an appointment with Dr. Archer this morning. Can you tell me which room he’s in?”
Sausage Fingers rolled her eyes and sighed, eyes still glued to the computer. Her triple chin shook awkwardly as she answered, “Room 158,” and stopped typing only long enough to point a fat digit in the general direction of where she assumed the long hallway that led to the offices was.
Vicki followed her finger to the hallway in question, and after mumbling a half-hearted “Thanks,” spun on her heel and scurried past the prying eyes of the other patients and down the over-lit corridor. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights was muffled by the rambling and the outcries of the other crazies seated in the lobby. The hallway seemed endless, almost like the tunnel that they say people walk through right before they die. Still clutching her purse, Vicki glanced on each side of her to read the numbers on the doors that she passed. She could hear raised voices coming from a couple of the rooms, but she couldn’t pick out what was being said.
The hallway turned a corner, and she froze. Her steps became slower and more cautious as she got closer, as if she expected the rapist himself to be standing just around the corner. She panicked. Hyperventilation began to sink in as the putrid taste of fear crept up the back of her throat. He was there, waiting for her. She knew it. Backing up against the opposite wall, she crept along the hallway and peaked around the corner, awaiting certain doom.
A surge of relief shot through her once again as she gazed down the very long, very empty hallway. Vicki’s knees weakened as she fell back against the wall, a cold sweat glistening on her face.
“Fuck’s sakes,” she muttered, panting. “You gotta stop doing that to yourself...”
She ran a trembling hand down her face and sighed, and continued down the hallway towards her destination. She didn’t know how it was possible, but the lights down this section of corridor were brighter than the others. Shielding her eyes, her long red hair shimmered and bounced as she walked down the hall, becoming increasingly impatient with every step.
“Jesus, who made this hallway so fucking long?” she said to herself. Vicki threw her purse over her shoulder, revealing significant hand prints in the leather where she gripped it so tightly. She wasn’t exactly sure why she was here in the first place. She thought it impossible that lying on an uncomfortable leather couch, talking to some jerk off with a pen and a clipboard was going to help her cope with what she’d been through.
Fuming, Vicki didn’t even notice the suited man walking out of one of the doors until it was too late. She plowed straight into him, and sent his glasses and clipboard flying. He was knocked back against the not-quite-closed door, and it swung inward. He barely caught himself on the door handle as he fell, causing a hefty rip in his charcoal colored blazer. Vicki’s face turned blood red with embarrassment as she knelt to help him.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you!” she exclaimed as she gathered his belongings from the tiled floor.
The man got to his feet and brushed himself off, and inspected his torn blazer. “Hmm...” he said with mild annoyance. “And I just bought this jacket last week.” He looked at Vicki with warm brown eyes and tried to fix his disheveled thinning hair. “You really should look where you’re going,” he told her, half smiling.
Vicki nodded, her face still rouge. “I know, I’m...sorry,” she stammered. She could feel an awkward silence creeping in, so she quickly extended her hand which was holding the man’s clipboard and glasses. “Here,” she said, nervous. “You... um... I... I think these are yours.”
He nodded and took the clipboard in one hand, and replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose with the other. “Thanks,” he replied. Then, he looked around the hallway and tilted his head as if he was deep in thought. “Now... what did I come out here for?” he scratched the small bald spot on the crown of his head and sighed. “Oh well, I’m sure it will come back to me sometime.” he chuckled slightly.
Vicki found herself making a sound that she hadn’t made in a long time. She didn’t expect anyone to coax it out of her so easily, and it scared her for a moment to hear her produce such an unfamiliar vocal anomaly.
The man smiled, and broke into a bigger fit of chuckles. “You have a very funny laugh, Miss...”
Vicki composed herself and extended a hand. “McCarthy,” she replied. “Vicki McCarthy, and I’m very sorry but I was supposed to be in a therapy session with Dr. Archer ten minutes ago, so I have to cut this short.”
The man in the torn blazer laughed even harder. “Well, Ms. McCarthy,” he chortled. “Look no further.” He pointed to the lettering on the door behind him.
Room 158
Dr. M. Archer, PhD. Sc.
Vicki nearly choked on her own spit as she gasped. Coughing, she braced herself against the wall in front of her and breathed heavily. A look of concern mapped Dr. Archer’s face as he put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Vicki nodded fiercely, and in between coughs said, “Yeah, it’s...nothing....to worry about...” The coughs finally stopped and she stood up straight, panting. She wiped the spittle from the sides of her mouth and composed herself once again, raising a reassuring hand to the doctor, who took the hint as a sign to proceed.
“Well then, come in and make yourself comfortable,” Dr. Archer said, showing her into the office. Vicki followed him to a long, brown leather chesterfield and he motioned for her to sit—or lie down, whichever she preferred.
Dr. Archer sat himself down in a large, black leather armchair and, readjusting his glasses, took out his clipboard and began flipping through the pages of notes he had written until he found a new page. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pen, clicking the ink dispenser.
“So,” he started, smiling broadly. “Where should we begin?”