Choice I

The security guard asks if you’re carrying any bombs in your coat, and as he’s tearing through your duffel bag you feel the first of what you know will be many moments of embarrassment and exposure. He hands you a little card with a list of services on it and a pen, so you can circle why you’re here. You want to tell him the underlying, psychosomatic, emotional reasons why, but you circle your selection, and follow him through a purple door. The nurse hands you paperwork and your wrist hurts as you carry it to a seat in a corner.
A person you’d rather forget rubs your back, tells you it’s going to be okay. You’re not sure if it’s wrong to hate him, if it’s fair, but you do anyway.
The nurse calls you into a room, and as you’re laying on the table you’re trying not to look at the screen, but it’s there, and somewhere in the white and black scribble there’s a shadow, and it’s you, it’s all you, and it has no idea how much trouble you’re both about to be in.

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