Runaway Parade
CONTRIBUTE
     
   

The Doctor

AMANDA MILLER

November 1, 2012

A fierce rumbling of thunder blasted me out of my Nyquil soaked slumber. At first I thought the city was under attack. What could I do if there was some kind of air raid except surrender to it? Within seconds, lightning followed suit, flashing through my window, brightening my room. I breathed a sigh of relief; Brooklyn was not going to blow up, at least not that night. I peeled my heavy feverish body off the mattress, pulling the sheets up with me, and planted my feet on the floor.

After moments of deep meditative preparation, I made the epic eight-foot journey to the toilet. Stumbling through the bathroom door in the dark, my head pounding, a piercing pain behind each eye, I flicked the light switch on. The bathroom remained drenched in darkness. Perhaps the storm had affected the power. Sitting down on the toilet, shorts around my ankles, head in my hands, I noticed a white light begin to shoot up from the toilet bowl beneath me. It was getting brighter with each passing second to the point where it was virtually blinding. I sprang up in terror and slammed my eyes shut. When I opened them, the light was gone and I was arrested by panicked confusion. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the shadow of a large figure standing behind the shower curtain. I pulled up my shorts. My heart was in my throat, pulse reverberating from head to toe. I reached for the light switch again. Still not working.

I turned to see the large shadow figure push the curtain to the side. He took one long slow step toward me, his whole body emanating pale blue light. He wore blue hospital scrubs; a stethoscope dangled around his neck.

“I heard you sniffling,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied nervously, “I have a cold and a terrible headache.”

“Let me have a look.”

He took an otoscope of his pocket and shined it in each of my ears.

“You look terrible. You need some medicine.”

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a dove, furiously flapping and fluttering for freedom. The doctor pressed it against the wall, reached in his pocket again, pulled out a surgical knife and quickly chopped the dove’s head off. Its bottom half continued to flutter, and flapped its way into the toilet bowl where the toilet flushed itself. I looked down to see I had soaked my legs in urine. Suddenly, a piercing green light shot out from the toilet bowl. The doctor handed me the bloody dove’s head.

“Swallow this with a full eight ounce glass of water, and then go back to sleep. I guarantee you will feel better in the morning,” he advised me. Then he climbed into the sink and was gone.


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