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- 09/20/2013
- 759 Words
- 1,111 Views
- 2 Comments
Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Waiting List - 1. Chapter 1
“Hi, is this the place to ask about a pending referral?”
“Yes, what do you need?”
“Yeah, so… I came by a while ago to sort out some problems with mine, and was just wondering what my status was?”
“I can’t look anything up without your name.”
“I’m Jason Warford.”
“Hold on.”
I heard her typing in the background.
“What is your social security num.. Nevermind, I found you. It says here that you’ve been placed back into the waiting list. You’re looking at about a year, at least, before we can schedule an appointment for you.”
“A-are you sure?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“There’s nothing you can do? Please…”
“No. Sorry.”
“Okay, bye.”
I closed my cellphone and threw it across the room.
“FUCK!” I yelled, as I punched the wall. A sickening crunch followed and my hand felt like it was on fire. “Jesus Christ. Shit, that hurts.”
With tears in my eyes, I sat down in my armchair. I don’t know what to do. I need this so badly, I can’t wait any longer. I’ve already been waiting for so long and it’s taken such a toll on me. I don’t know if I can take much more of this. Physically or emotionally.
What am I supposed to do in the mean time? I don’t even know. It’s not like I haven’t done everything I can think of already and none of it’s worked.
I don’t know what I’m going to do and I don’t know what I want to do right now. I want to simultaneously sit here and never move again, crawl into my cocoon and cover myself in covers to disappear, and run away.
What would I do if I ran away? I don’t know. I have no plan. I don’t want or need to go anywhere. I’d just leave and walk. Just walk and walk and have nothing happen. But that’s stupid, I can’t do that. Even now, I’m practical. Why can’t I just let go, I wonder?
I got up and crawled into bed. Curling into the fetal position, I pulled the covers over me. The last thing I remember doing before sleep hit me was wiping away the tears from my eyes.
I woke with a start, probably two or three hours later.
“What am I going to tell me Mom?”
We haven’t talked about what’s been going on very much. She knows about it, and has been supportive and all, but she doesn’t understand. That much is obvious and once I realized that, I stopped talking to her about it.
I got out of bed and started pacing back and forth. My hand was throbbing in pain, but at least it was only dull. It had started to swell up too, just fantastic.
What if my mom wants me to go private? That’s so god damn expensive and I can’t ask her to pay for that. She’s already done so much for me. The only alternative is waiting, which isn’t really an option either. I felt a burst of energy, of red hot anger overwhelm me. I kicked the closest thing to me, which happened to be my massive wooden cabinet.
“Fuck, fuck.. owe. Owe, owe. That hurts like a son of a bitch.” I mumbled to myself as I hopped around on one foot. I was rubbing my bad foot with my good hand, trying desperately to make the pain go away.
“Fuck me…” I mumbled, when I heard my cellphone ring.
Hobbling over there, I answered the call. “Hello?”
“Hi. Mr. Warford?”
“Yes. Speaking?”
“I just got confirmation that a spot opened up.”
“Okay.”
Where is she going with this? I can think and hope I know, but I don’t want to disappoint myself. The last thing I need right now is false hope. I’m barely hanging on by a thread and that might be what pushes me over. Who am I kidding? Probably not, because I’ve been hanging by this string for years and haven’t been pushed over yet. Although, it would suck a lot.
“I wanted to know if you’re interested in having it.”
“Okay.”
“...Good. How about we make an appointment for next Tuesday at 10am. How’s that sound?”
A sigh of relief washed over me. Maybe things were about to get a whole lot better. “Okay.”
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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