A Furrow in the Wall
Doctor Adwaba strolls into Nathan’s room, seemingly disregarding the existence of his patient as he seats himself in the small chair next to the bed. He holds Nathan’s chart and proceeds to study it as if he hasn’t already talked to Nathan several times previously.
“So how are we feelin’ today?” The Doctor speaks in stilted English; Nathan has a hard time understanding him. The word “apartheid” slides into his brain for some unknown reason.
“Better, Doctor.”
“You don’t wanna kill yourself no more?” He doesn’t even look up from the chart.
“No, Doctor. I want to go home now. I’ve been here long enough.”
Doctor Adwaba looks up from the chart and rakes Nathan’s eyes. “We can’t keep you any longer here. I have to let you go home or send you off to an inpatient unit. But you promise me you see a psychiatrist on outside, right?” Nathan nods. “You woman here to pick you up. Check out with the nurses.”
Nathan stands up, gathers his effects, and promenades toward the nurses’ station. Then he sees her, staring at him through the glass on the other side of the station. She looks him from bare feet to rustled hair. He feels molested.
Nathan completes the bureaucracy and is allowed exit to the waiting area where she awaits. Eyes low, his feet move stupidly forward, ignoring baser instincts. He gives her not a glance or acknowledgement; he just moves out the door. The pavement’s rejected fragments pierce and scar his feet, yet they blindly move forward.
She grabs Nathan’s shoulders and turns him to face her. She speaks, but the words do not translate to coherence. She roughly grabs his arm, nails biting into a wrist previously left unharmed. She forces a rough piece of metal, gold and diamonds, into his palm and stomps past. Gold, light in his hand, fuses a lump into his heart. His unencumbered hand absentmindedly rubs his neck.
He misses the crack. He follows her to the car.
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