Re: The stairwell to the eighth floor, 12:03 AM.
Joanie had never had a problem with doctors before. But now, as this one looked at her hands and tilted her chin to stare at her face, she found herself hating them more and more. When you were healthy, doctors just served as a means of reinforcing your confidence. When something was wrong, they set your nerves on fire with worry. Every time he paused, every time a muscle in his face twitched, she jumped just slightly.
The fact that he seemed to be changing nationalities didn't even occur to her, because she was much more invested in whether or not she was going to die. At the moment, it seemed she wasn't, but you didn't need to be dead to be screwed. His quietly worried tone set her stomach churning. "Should I get tests?" she interjected eagerly, falling silent when he mentioned a theory.
Leaning forward against her knees, she watched him eagerly, eyes widening as he went on. At first, it was promising. A theory around the building, that meant it could be something wrong with everybody, and so there were others like her. They could go to the hospital together, a gaggle of green jelly beans, and get cured. Then the theory got weird. And weirder. And then she had had it.
"What?" she hissed, her face turning a deep shade of brown as blood rushed to her cheeks. "How the fuck can people be descendants of fictional characters, characters don't have kids you fucking quack!" With a snarl that would make wolverines proud, she leapt to her feet, standing dangerously close to the disbelieving doctor. "If you don't know what's wrong with me, then say it." The last two words were shrieked rather than spoken, and for a moment Joanie felt like she might fasten her hands around his neck. Instead, she stood still, her shoulders heaving as she breathed heavily, trying desperately to maintain some form of harness on her temper simply because she needed this doctor.
That wasn't about to last long, but it was worth the try.