Chapter Seventy-Three

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The following morning...

My feet feel unbelievably sore, and my back, neck, and shoulders all ache like a motherfucker, thanks in no small part to falling asleep on my hard apartment floor, but I keep walking, unable to stop myself from moving. I keep going back and forth, to and fro, putting left foot after right foot, again and again until I can almost feel my boots creating cracks and furrows in the tiled floor.

I'm pacing like a maniac, even though the receptionist and two nurses have already told me that it's not allowed. I've tried to sit still but I'm just too restless.

I had been sitting for a little bit, actually, tapping my feet uncontrollably and drumming my fingers against the wooden bench, still very much like a maniac, and one of the patients who'd been sitting across from me in the waiting room looked at me warily, as if I was some unhinged asylum escapee before I couldn't take it anymore and started pacing again.

I watch the clock like a hawk, both dreading each passing second but also wishing for the time to hurry the hell up and for nine o'clock to get here so that I can finally get this over with already. Heck, at this point, I fear all the anxiety and anticipation flooding my body alone might kill me before any potential cancer gets the chance to.

I regret the thought as soon as I think it. I'd hoped I could calm myself down a little by trying to make light of the situation, but it only backfired. I don't find a trace of humor in any of this whatsoever. At the same time, I don't want to think so negatively, but I really can't help it. Being realistic, even if that means being pessimistic sometimes, is something I've had to learn time and time again in life. It's just better for me to be honest with myself and prepared to deal with the situation head on instead of trying to deceive myself into believing fantasies and clinging on to tiny threads of hope that may very well be baseless and non-existent.

Like a lot of people who find themselves in shitty situations far removed from their control, I could ask the God and universe and whoever else may be out there why this is happening to me. Why, after everything I've already been through, I can't just catch a fucking break. But what would be the point? There's no rule that says you stop suffering altogether just because you've suffered before, or that bad shit won't happen to you anymore just because you've endured the worst of it already. Life isn't fair, or just, or right. It just is. And this, right here, right now, is my life. Whether I want it to be or not.

"Miss Gallo?"

I look up to meet the eyes of a nurse I haven't seen before. She has unusually bright green eyes which are absolutely stunning and a stark, almost bizarre contrast to the rest of her mousy and demure appearance. Her sandy brown hair is pulled back into a conservative bun without a single flyaway in sight, and she's completely covered up, so that not even her ankles are exposed.

Vito would definitely approve of her.

"Yeah, that's me," I croak, hating the sound of my own voice. I can't believe how hoarse I sound from crying so much, but then again, I have much bigger problems to worry about right now than actually sounding like a girl.

She nods and then gestures to the elevator, urging me to follow her. "Doctor Frost will see you now."

***

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