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The check-in nurse hands me off to another perky blonde who takes me to an examining room.
The walls are painted a pale lavender.
I feel awkward.
I don’t know where to sit.
She tells me to take a seat on the examination table.
Her voice is like sugar on top of a sundae.
The examination table crinkles beneath me.
I shift some more.
“Do you have any allergies to medications?”
My mind is so far gone that I don’t hear her.
“Miss, do you have any allergies to medications?”
“Oh… Uh…” I shift again, the paper now torn beneath me. “Yes, I’m allergic to penicillin.”
The people in the magazines smile at me. I hate them and their wrinkly teeth.
“Ok. And do you have a history of heart disease?”
“And I’m allergic to certain anesthesia,” I cut in, still staring at the glossy faces on the magazines. “Though I can’t remember which. Not that it matters…”
“It’s always good to know.” The blonde smiles sweetly. “Any history of heart disease?”
There’s a large poster on the door of what appears to be some kind of vascular system. I can see the veins inside the outline of the cartoon body. I’m not sure what it’s trying to teach me. About diabetes? About cancer? About the futility of our mortal life?
Who cares.
“Miss?”
I move my eyes away from the educational poster and back to the nurse. I feel like dirty glass.
“Do you have a history of heart disease?”
Christ. Why does it matter? I’m not here for hypertension. I stare at her blankly for a few moments. Talking hurts. Everything hurts. I feel like I’ve been thrown through a woodchipper and put back together with tape.
“None that I’m aware of,” I eventually say. As the blonde rattles off something about how it’s good I don’t have heart disease, I remember that my great uncle died of a heart attack. It’s too late to say anything though, as she’s moved on to her next question. Does it really matter? I’m here for a fucking rape kit, not a check-up.
I look back at the chipper, half-exposed, cartoon poster man. If he can be happy all chopped up and on display, I guess I can be…
“Do you want us to call the police?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you used the restroom?”
“Um…”
“After the assault, sweetheart.”
“Yes.” Is that important? Have I already fucked up? Ugh, I hate this so much. It’s like taking a test I could never be prepared for. This is almost worse than the rape.
