John barely registered the phone call initially. A voicemail about his blood work. He’d meant to check it. Soon. The message, filled with urgent medical jargon, faded into the background noise of the day, like a forgotten radio jingle. He sunk further into the worn armchair, the worn fabric offering a familiar, comforting resistance.
The air hung thick and heavy with the scent of stale pizza and unwashed clothes. He considered getting up, maybe cleaning up. The thought alone made his limbs feel leaden. He flicked through channels, each show a fleeting distraction, an escape from the weight of his own existence.
The next day, the same voicemail. And the next. They kept saying they were concerned about the elevated potassium levels. He tried to tell himself he'd do it tomorrow. It’s not like anything terrible could happen right? He was basically fine!
Finally, weeks later, spurred by a relentless series of increasingly frantic messages, he went. He sat in the waiting room, a picture of indifference, the magazines untouched on the table beside him. The doctor, after a moment of confusion, informed him his records had been mixed up with those of a very elderly man.