Unmasking the Nightmare

Chapter Twelve: Supervillains Don't Have Manners

I hate hospitals.

The hallway walls, the ceilings, and the floor tiles are all bathed in the same glowing white sheen, not a single scratch or stain on the pure white paint. Despite the hospital being around for years, the white didn't look dingy or dirty, as if the hospital staff had been washing and cleaning it regularly to avoid dirt build-up.

I suppose I should stop worrying about why the staff would be so concerned about maintaining it's clean condition. I felt like white, clean places were always trying to hide something, since it seemed strange that the walls looked as white and perfect as they did in a place as dirty and sickly as a hospital. But I had worse things to worry about...

"...you're zoning out again," Sabina whispered hoarsely, nudging my shoulder and snapping me back into reality. "You've been staring at that weird painting on the wall for the past five minutes."

I gnawed my chapped lips, folding my trembling hands in my lap as I rocked back and forth on my heels. "What else am I supposed to do? They're operating on my mom right now, and this anticipation and anxiety is eating me alive."

"Just...think happy thoughts," Sabina stated it simply, as if it was the simplest solution in the world.

"That's not in my nature," I snapped, slumping in the cheap plastic chair that I had been sitting in for the past two hours, the backrest bending against my weight. I inhaled shakily, plugging my nose from the stench of antiseptic that stung my nostrils. The hospital waiting room was much too bright, blinding white lights piercing my eyes and dancing across the white-tiled floor.

Sabina didn't reply to my sour comment, her eyes wandering away from me and towards one of the TV screens that was mounted to the wall facing us, the nightly news featuring a female reporter that was droning on about the soaring success rates of the Reigners against the Elites.

I tried to tune out the uncomfortable silence between us, certain that Sabina had given up on trying to pull me from my miserable mood. She would say that I was being pessimistic, but I would claim that I was being realistic.

Sabina could look at the worst situation in the history of mankind and automatically find the good, whereas I could find the bad in every good situation, since my rose-colored glasses were apparently nonexistent or broken. If someone gave Sabina lemons, then she would make lemonade. If someone gave me lemonade, I would give them lemons. Sabina and I were almost as opposite as you could get.

I was jolted from my thoughts when a brittle cough charged with phlegm echoed around the waiting room, making me cringe. A splattering sound drowned out the monotone news reporters that glazed various TV screens, a frail voice following asking, "C-can I get a v-vomit bag?"

I exhaled in exasperation as my eyes traveled over to an elderly man that was sitting perpendicular to me, a puddle of chunky vomit forming around his ratty sneakers. He was busying wiping away a string of mucus and saliva from his pale lips and I bit back a gag, not wanting to be rude.

Sabina, on the other hand, snapped her attention away from the TV screen, her face melting into a sympathetic smile. "Are you okay, sir? Are you thirsty or hungry? I can buy you something from the vending machine if you want."

The man shook his head slowly, mumbling under his breath as he stared down at the pool of thick muck at his feet, waiting for the hospital staff to clean up the sickly mess.

"Sabina, we aren't here to make friends," I hissed under my breath, gritting my teeth together hard enough to snap them. "Ugh, I hate this! My mom could be dying right now, and I'm stuck in this waiting room. Fahrenheit said that he would come back to get us once her surgery was over!"