How hollow they had hit him, those words.
"You're dying, John."
Quickly, he tries to blink them away. No. Not me. Impossible!
The sun is shining outside the clinic window. Not me, John thinks, watching a woman pass by pushing a pram. Her dress catches in the wind as she walks. His entrails tremble. His mind reels. Such a beautiful hollowed out somehow by heavy day news; a cigarette, a woman., his mother. Need! Help!
The doctor was looking at him, sympathetic. It made him feel defiant. Not me, Doc, John thinks, swallowing dryly. No. But, queasy. Jesus, oh sweet Jesus, dying for God's sake! What does that mean? I'm... What will...
"We can start you on the medication right away," the doctor says, standing, sympathetic. John stares. Medication. Sickness. Disease. Death. Pain. Shame. Oh, God. How to tell my...
The sun shines; a beautiufl, hollow day. John's throat contracts.