Running With Scissors
In the sterile quiet of Dr. George’s Manhattan office, the air hung heavy with unspoken dread. Peter Katz, a lawyer whose reputation preceded him like a bad smell, sat slouched, a picture of impatient defiance. He eyed the expensive pen on the doctor's desk, a small, predatory glint in his eye.
“Get on with it, Doc,” Peter drawled, his voice a low rumble. “I have other things to do.”
Dr. George adjusted his glasses, a faint sigh escaping him. “Mr. Katz, your test results are in. I’m afraid you have Stage IV Colon Cancer.”
Peter’s smirk faltered. Cancer. The word hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome. “Why are you using Roman numerals?” he finally asked, his voice betraying a hint of unease. “And what does that even mean?”
The doctor, unfazed, stood and moved towards an anatomical model. “This,” he began, removing a part, “is the colon.”
“The shitter,” Peter interrupted, a flicker of his usual bravado returning. But the doctor's next words, about surgery and only 'five or six months' to live, froze him. For once, Peter Katz was speechless. His mind raced, calculating, dismissing, then finally, a cold, hard panic set in.
He bolted. Out of the office, down the hall, to the emergency stairs. He ran like his life depended on it, which, for the first time, it truly did. Jumping two steps at a time, he failed to see the misplaced Wendy's bag, filled with squished chicken nuggets, at the bottom. A sickening crunch echoed in the stairwell, followed by an intense, consuming darkness.
