It's white in the Room. So white I shut my eyes in pain, the yellow light searing through my eyes and piercing my head. The light that could be compared to heaven and euphoria. The cause contradicts the place.

I de-robe and change into the stiff dress. Making my skin itch as if passes over my arms. I glance around at the room's decorative posters. A nutrition pyramid, the cycle of pregnancy, a graphic view of the stomach. Too bad they don't have a step by step poster of how to go insane, that might actually be of use.

The Room is slightly cold, the skin on my legs turn prickly as goose bumps dress from my toes to my shoulders. I think it's some unknown doctor's law that their cubicles have to be uncomfortable. I think they all sit at a meeting and agreed "They're already dying, no need to pamper them."

Bastards.

Dr. Monroe rushes into the room. He's one of thoseregular-name doctors who seem to have nothing about them to remember, like they've been destined to begood at biology and anatomy so that they could become doctors and tell 17 year old girls that they're dying. He shuffles the papers on the counter, leaning against it, flipping over the notes on his clipboard. Very doctor-ish pose, I wait for the director to say cut.

"Ms. Burkhardt" he drawls, a friendly smile on his face.

"How are you feeling?" I think about replying with the usual "I'm dying, how are you?" But I debug the guilt mode in my brain and swing my legs.

"Just fine. Yourself?" Smiling with my mouth, showing no teeth, I bite my lip to hold back those snarky remarks itching to let loose. I bet he deals with this everyday.

"Good, let's take this down to room 12 shall we?"

I hop off and walk down the pale hall, colors fading with age. Worn out and old. It's almost ironic how at ease it makes me feel. The ugliness of it all. Here I'm an equal. If that's not logic I don't know what is.

I lay on a tray and they send me in. I feel exposed, showing my problems to the world. They tell me to stay still and to not move and inch. I can't anyway, my eyes are glued to the ceiling, can't you see it? They sky? It's so blue today, with clouds scattered amongst it, white, so white. But it doesn't hurt. White like milk, maybe I could drink the sky.

"Great job, we'll have the information soon."

Zap. I zoom back to reality. We walk back in silence to the Room, when we get there he starts looking through the papers on his clipboard.

I sit back on the table, the crinkly paper crinkling even further. It doesn't like me sitting on it, ruining the paper beyond usage again.

"You don't have to pretend to be busy to avoid eye contact Dr. Monroe."

He looks up from his clipboard and sighs "I'm not pretending Ms. Burkhardt. I'm checking your stats."

"I don't need stats to tell me I'm dying, and you already know that. And I know what you're thinking, how long until lunch break, do I have any more appointments after this? You've seen thousands of cases exactly alike and unlike mine. You've seen us pass through here so often it's like were not real, not human. Like we lose our title in existence and individuality. I know all this Dr. Monroe, so the last thing I need is some bullshit doctor telling me I don't know a damn thing."

He looks at me and leaves the room. Maybe If I was a good patient I would thank the doctor for doing all he could, or maybe I would appreciate all the comforting words he bestowed upon me in my time of need.

Maybe if I was a good person I would try to make my last moments pleasant for myself and people around me. No offense, but I just don't feel like I owe the world any favors.

Dr. Monroe comes back in and sits in front of me

"It's spread." He says

I nod numbly and reply "Like you said it would."

"There's more." He takes a breath of air, like this is so hard for him or something. "We've discovered that there might have been a way to stop this if we had found out about it earlier."

I look to the floor. Why is he telling me this?

"But now, it seems you have a dependency on it, half of it is killing you, the other half is keeping you alive. If we were to operate you would either die or experience major side effects like dementia and shutting down of the vital organs. Which would probably kill you anyway."

I shake my head, I've been so stupid. If I had just paid to attention to all those signs before…

"We're prescribing you some pills that will help with the side effects." He explains, writing down some hokus pokus name that won't do a damn thing in the end. He hands me a slip of paper and leads me to the door.

"Everything will be OK Ms. Burkhardt." I want to laugh at how unconvincing he is, and how it sounds like he's used this line millions of times before. Sigh, nothing but the best.

"For now." I finish for him and walk to the car.

He could have lied, he could have. He didn't have to tell me that there could have been a possibility of living before, what's the point of telling a dying person that you could have lived if they don't have a time machine?

Nothing is the same. The sun that shines so brightly against the snow as I'm driving, the branches crested with snow, the slippery road so dangerous. They all lose their meaning.

They're all distractions, distractions to keep our minds off of dying. Dying is always a constant reminder, it can happen to you no matter what, any place, and any time. So why is it that dying always seems to be one of those million-in-one chances. So many ways to die, so many possibilities, and yet nobody you know ever seems to get them. Maybe a distant cousins friends sister on your moms side might have had ovarian cancer. Your Grandfather might have had diabetes. But it all seems irrelevant, nobody ever seems to die.

And maybe that's a good thing, maybe despite all the possible ways to die we can defy the odds. It just seems so ironic at how many people flood the hospitals and yet we hardly know anyone with a disease or illness or even death. Maybe they're illusions, one of those things we see, but aren't really there.

Our own mirage of death, fooling us to believe that death is all around and it can happen to YOU.

But there's nothing to fool, death is all around us and it can happen to us. It's the ignorant people who don't know that, they create those families in the waiting room of a hospital, and they create those attendants in the green dresses after a surgery, successful or not.

I slowly come to a stop at a red light. My eyes itch and water slightly from being awake too long and not blinking. They're itchy, scratchy. Parents always tell you not to say scratchy because the correct term is itchy.

I think I'll start saying scratchy from now on.

I think I'm finally losing it.

It's about time……..

A/N: Wooh, sorry, I've lost interest in That 70s show fanfiction, but I've decided to update this one. It's kind of fun to write.