Fire ↬ Ben Parish

02

"YOU almost done in there?"

I can see the dark silhouette of the nurse in the green scrubs hidden behind the shower curtain. She lays her hands on her hips and even through the curtain, I can see the impatience written on her face.

I sigh and turn the water off. I run my fingers through my washed dark brown hair, "I'm done."

I push the curtain aside. My wet, naked body shivers in the cool air.

"Put on one of those robes." She points to the left of me at a bin filled with robes.

I quickly wrap it around my freezing body. It fits perfect but it's not much help. The papery material scratches against me.

She sends me a friendly smile, "Go through that door over there."

I follow her arm that's now pointing to a door on the other side of the room. Beyond the door, I find another nurse. She has on the same green scrubs. She's writing something down and doesn't look to happy when she tells me to sit on the examination table.

When she stands in front of me, she lets out a fake looking smile and puts the same silver disk as Parker did to my forehead. It glows the same familiar red color as it did on the bus.

"Good, you don't have a fever." She flashes the same fake smile as before, "Now, hop down from there. I have to get your weight."

She guides me to a scale and writes my weight down. I stare at the numbers for a second too long. I look down and notice how accurate they are, I've lost more weight than I thought. I don't even remember the last time I ate.

Self-consciously, I cross my arms in attempt to cover my much too thin stomach.

I scan the room. There's a stool in front of the counter, where the nurse was sitting when I walked in, three plastic, fold-up chairs in the corner and the examination table in the middle.

I sit on top of the table and hear the crunch of the thin paper lining. I swing my legs back and forth impatiently. It's like she's writing an essay on that damn clipboard. Sure, take your time.

"Just letting you know, I'm freezing my ass off over here." I spit, crossing my arms and arching my eyebrows.

She lets out a small chuckle, "Finally some personality! I've been dealing with little kids for hours, you know how they are. Always following the crowd, just being boring."

My annoyed expression doesn't change. 

"Alright," she goes on.  "I'm going to ask you some questions. Try to answer them as best as you can."

I nod and she begins, "Name?"

"Scarlet." It sounds almost dry as it comes out. It seems as if names don't really mean anything anymore.

"Age?"

"Sixteen."

She keeps her eyes glued to the clipboard, "Any family known to be alive?"

The words sill out as if it's a casual thing to say, "No. They're all dead."

Dead doesn't mean anything to me, at this point. It's like a flipped switched inside me. I've used up to many tears on the dead. My heart is still beating but I'm not really alive. I'm being shot at with everything they have but somehow, I'm still able to avoid the bullets. I'm still here but just as dead as the rest. I'm something that drives what the true meaning of emptiness is.

She nods but she wants more, "How did they die?"

I swallow and, let the words stream out, "Dad died in the quakes. My sister got the plague and, uh, my mom was shot."