Excerpt: The Unwilling

The air was crisp, thin but not overly so. Luckily enough it was a good five to ten degrees cooler than our house near the river, and I instantly wlecomed the breezy shade on my half frozen air conditioned skin. Had I brought any winter clothes? Yes, I reminded myself quickly. Half the nicer clothes I owned were winter clothes, since I was attending school in an astoundingly cold city. Putting one cloth shoed foot in front of the other, however slowly, I eventually made my way over to Mr. Grease's side, where he continued to scowl, his frown looking more permanent than that sappy lawyer look had ever been. This emotion seemed a little more at home, a little more convincing than the others he'd passed through while reclining in our furniture at the house. It bothered me, but I put on my 'I don't give a shit' face, pruposely walking ahead of him. Unafraid. If I was going to die, so be it. But fuck if I was going to look like some terrified little girl doing it. I put one hand through my short hair and straightened up my shoulders, crossing the ridiculously small parking lot to the drivaround entrance of the hospital. It was only when I crossed the threshold of the building did I realize it had no name at the front, no defining characteristic hospital 'type'. There was no cancer center type logo, no stickers, no pens with names on them. Just a small, too small, sterile waiting room with no television, dirty old magazines, a decrepit fish tank and a fresh well made receptionist rocking Scooby Doo scrubs as she calmly smiled at my entrance. Creepy. She seemed to have a strange fake tan thing going on, nearly orange in her complexion with outrageously, expertly curled hair pinnned back into a hair piece that made her look like she was going to prom. Her boobs were trying so hard to break free, too. This was no receptionist, not in any sense of the word. No, she was filling a role for someone. But why?

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“You changed beautifully.” That's what Anna said. Bull shit.