Stalked By A Serial Killer

Chapter Seventeen: You've Been Vomiting Way Too Much

Chapter Seventeen: "You've Been Vomiting Way Too Much."

"OKAY, OKAY, CHILL OLD MAN." I laugh and throw my hands in the air, grabbing my phone and sling and exit the house. I enter his black 2014 Mercedes Benz E-Class and throw my sling and seat belt on.

We speed out of the long driveway and several minutes later, arrive at the doctors office. "Do you want me to come in with you?" He asks as he pulls into the parking lot and pulls into a vacant space.

"Only if you want. I honestly don't know how long I'll be in there. The option is yours."

"What about this," he announces. I look at the clock on the radio and it says three twenty four. "I have a couple errands to run in the area, so when you're done just give me a shout and I'll come pick you up."

"Yeah, sure, sounds good. I'll see you soon." I smile, giving him a quick peck on the cheek and open the door, wobbling out. I turn and see him pull out, and I open the metal doors to the building.

I walk up to the desk, where a woman sits on the phone chatting away quietly, barely audible. Sounds to me like she's scheduling an appointment. She looks Latino or Mexican and has dark brown hair that drops a few inches below her shoulders. She has a heart shaped face and looks up to me with a smile, exposing her pearly white teeth and forest green eyes. She's extremely pretty. She looks in her early thirties, maybe.

She hangs up the phone and grins again.

"Hi, what can I help you with?" She asks politely, her voice louder, telling me she's definitely of Spanish origin.

"I have an appointment at three thirty for a. . . uh. . check up, I guess. Morgan Peters." I tell her. She beams at me, typing on her keyboard and stands up. She gestures for me to follow her and leads me into a small room.

"The doctor will be with you in a moment. For now, just remove your sweater and relax."

"Thank you." I smile. She returns the look and disappears, closing the door behind her.

I do as I'm told after a few moments, and remove last years soccer team hoodie, the North West Devils. Our colours, not shockingly enough, are black. Our practice uniforms are white though, with black stripes and our last names imprinted on everything.

My sweater is grey, with our soccer logo, team, and our name on it. The team and logo are spread throughout on the front, in black and red printing. My initials are on the upper left hand corner, and on my shoulder sleeves. My name is printed out at the bottom on the back, in black, bold lettering. In all honesty, this is my favourite soccer sweater, minus the Nike and Adidas set with track pants that came from the indoor season a few months ago and outdoor season from last year.

Too caught up in my thoughts, I don't hear or see the door open until a voice clears their throat and I jump. "Sorry, I was somewhere else." I mumble.

"No worries." They say. "How's the arm holding up?"

"Fine, I guess. I've been taking out of my sling every day for a few hours though."

"Any pain that comes?"

"Only when I move it quick or certain directions that I don't usually do."

"Can you give me an example?" Dr. Hawthorn asks. I nod my head, placing my sweater down beside me.

"Hugging someone quite a bit taller, and sometimes when I stretch my arm out all the way. Or when I crack my back; the twisting."

"Can you move your arm here?" He gestures to the right, about forty five degrees. I outstretch my arm, and hold it there. "Any pain?" I shake my head. "Okay, how about here?"