The pallid four walls were closing in on him.
As the pendulum of time swayed to and fro, materialized in the plastic tail of the cat clock bouncing from side to side, he thought about the severity of his situation.
He was in one of the examination rooms of Dr. Peckle, a place he had been in countless times before.
Yet, this time was completely different.
Though he understood the concept of never being able to dip your toes in the exact same piece of a river, the difference he felt from being in the room this time petrified him.
He took a step out of his body and walked up to the plaques covering the wall. The framed pieces of paper told observers that Dr. Peckle was highly skilled in his profession and they didn’t need to worry.
But he was worried. He worried about the sickness in him that had spread to every fiber of his being and caused his writing hand to go bad.
He blamed everyone else for his dire ailment. With their judgmental hacking coughs and patriarchal sprays of mucus, he was surprised anybody was healthy.
The people in his phone didn’t help either, causing him to compare all of his actions and putting his mind in disarray.
Just then, he was snapped back into his body as the man resting on the exam table next to him grabbed his attention. “Hey Doc, you gonna clean these pearly whites or what?”
Dr. Peckle apologized for his reverie before scraping the plaque from the man’s mouth and continuing on with the complacent laziness that now defined his life.