corduroy trousers :)

The piercing sound of another ambulance woke me from my trance. I blinked, confused and somewhat irritated by the interruption. It was then that I remembered where I was. I felt my heart drop and fall silent; I drew in a deep breath as it resumed to it’s erratic beat. The ambulance siren slowly drizzled out until it was replaced by the muffled tones of uncertainty around me. The clock ticked away mockingly. I took in another deep breath, this time the stench of disinfectant stung my nostrils and a sharp pungent taste lingered at the back of my throat.
I scanned the room, once more, hoping to discover something new. I didn’t. Nothing had changed. No one had changed. The same assiduous nurse was bustling in and out of corridors. She was the same nurse that ‘greeted’ me on my arrival; her bright white uniform and affable smile had since faded. I watched as she sighed to herself and once more disappear down a dark corridor, the sound of her quick footsteps weakening as she hurried.
I noticed one voice that seemed to domineer the nervous whispers surrounding me. I turned towards it, and was surprised to discover that the voice belonged to a lanky, gaunt looking man with wispy white hair and lines on his face that represented at least 60 years worth of wisdom. He held a small, worn out book in his frail hand and rested the other on a weeping man’s shoulder; he must have been a priest – or a chaplain. He looked up and glanced around the room, his eyes suddenly met mine and for some reason his expression changed. It was no longer caring, or sympathetic. He wearily smiled, as if testing the waters. I didn’t return his meaningless gesture; I found his sanctimonious smile repulsive. I then realised what feeling lay behind his weary eyes. Fear. Did he know? My heart jumped again and lost all consistency. I looked away rapidly, yet I could still feel the burning accusation of the chaplain’s eyes on my back.
Minutes past and I hadn’t dared to look around, but a small girl at the other side of the room caught my attention. She was playing with a pop up book (one of the many frivolous books on offer in the waiting room) but it hadn’t been long until she’d gotten bored and started to fidget. She started pulling at the seams of her small corduroy trousers when her mother gave her an impetuous flick to stop it. Then the little girl started to whimper. It was a pathetic whimper. My top lip started curl in disgust, when I realised this I had no option but to smile. People are meant to find puny children whimpering endearing aren’t they? I don’t.
Despite my efforts to smile pleasantly, the girl stopped whimpering and fell silent when she saw me. She quickly clutched onto her mother’s cardigan and nuzzled her head into the mother’s arms, as if hiding. She knew. They all knew.
The waiting room doors suddenly burst open. I swung around jolted and terrified. It was the surgeon. Surely he knew what had happened. Had I left any evidence on me? I looked down at myself and scanned the ripples and folds of fabric. No blood. No trace. There was no indication of what had happened, but somehow they all knew. I slowly looked up to meet the surgeon’s eyes. There was a pause that seemed to last forever. The shelf in my stomach collapsed and my blood ran cold and throbbed faster then ever. The surgeon pulled down the thin fabric that clung to his jaw and mouth and shook his head slowly; his guilty eyes lowered to the floor. My legs almost gave collapsed as a wave of relief swept through my body. I felt a grimace spread across my face but hastily erased it to replace it with sorrow. Everyone around me looked sympathetic. Ha! They pitied me! No one knew.