The wall stared back at him, white and empty. He would've killed to see a picture on that wall. Anything he would've preferred to sitting there on a cold table with nothing to serve as a buffer between his legs and the steel but a thin pillow and sanitary paper. Ugh, sanitary, it made it sound as if he had the disease already. Oh no, he couldn't be that fortunate. They told him the shot beat the alternative. Pfft, how did they know? Did they ever catch it? Greg seriously doubted it.
They, the nurse and the doctor, crowded around him as if had the words "wild animal in need of cornering" on his back. He thought one person might've sufficed. One stepped beside him, and Greg found his view of the wall blocked by a lab coat. Suddenly he missed the comfort of the wall, at least that didn't make him feel awkward.
"Ready, Gregory?" The doctor asked with a seemingly mocking voice.
Greg sighed. Would he ever feel ready? The last time...his arm hurt for a week, a week. That's a week of missed guitar practice, missed drinking blended coffee drinks while reading the paper, oh, and texting on his phone with one hand and doing his homework with the other. Not to mention how tired he'd feel after...
"Poke." The nurse and the doctor chimed together.
He stared at the wall...er, lab coat, bracing himself for the inevitable. His eyes squinted shut, his fingers clenched the edge of the table....wait...what happened to the needle? Greg glanced to the side, watching as the nurse put the needle away.
"Aren't you going to poke me?"
The nurse blinked. "You didn't feel it?"
Floating Fish should go on here! Over. Out.
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