Excerpt from a longer piece, under consideration by Assisi.

Nine Feet Fears

There were hives on his forehead between his two eyebrows. For a second, my gaze traveled down. I had avoided looking the doctor directly in his eyes because every time I did, a smirk crossed his lips. But they were enthralling—I had never before seen eyes so small, so sunken, and so similar in color to wet dog ordure. For a second my gaze traveled down to his and he smiled. Then he looked at my mouth, licked his lips, and swept further down. I felt slimy wherever his gaze landed, like a thousand tiny bugs had just slithered down my exposed skin. I wrapped the white robe tighter around me. 

“Well, you’re already an adult,” the doctor said. “I’m going to be direct.” 

My mother shifted in her seat beside me. She grabbed my hand and moved it to her lap. On the other side of the wide oak desk, the doctor rummaged through the papers on his desk for some test results and I took the opportunity to study him. 

With each new visit to his office, I noticed more. Like how his head resembled the shape, color, and texture of a potato. And how his eyes were set far apart on the oblong surface. A week ago, I saw his yellowing teeth and dry, thin lips for the first time. The week before, when he was checking my pulse, his clammy, calloused hands had surprised me. The sight was still shocking: all the hair he had lost in his head had been relocated to his knuckles. Today, I focused on the hollow and sunken pores on his forehead. 

He licked his lips and said, “According to these new results, the area is almost healthy. However, to make sure we have stopped it, I want to go ahead with the radioactive iodine.”