The waiting room felt like a pressure cooker. Walls closed in, the fluorescent lights buzzed with a relentless, irritating energy, and every cough and shuffle of feet amplified the building fury in Elias's chest. He’d been stuck here for three hours, the same three hours he spent every month. This time, however, the diagnosis felt crueller than usual. Another fruitless test. Another dead end. He felt the familiar heat rise in his cheeks, the tremor in his hands. He slammed his fist on the armrest of the vinyl chair, the sound echoing in the sterile silence.
A woman with fiery red hair and a matching temper, who'd been nervously picking at her fingernails, jumped. “Well, that was pleasant,” she snapped, her voice sharp as broken glass.
“Apologies,” he bit back, his voice a low growl. He didn't care about politeness. All he cared about was getting out of there. He rubbed his temples, hoping to stave off the migraine that usually followed these episodes. "Just a bit… frustrated," he muttered, hoping the dismissal would end the conversation.
She stared back at him, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. "Frustrated? Try absolutely consumed by a burning resentment. Is that a familiar feeling?"