Sweat beaded on Elias's forehead, despite the air conditioning humming in the sterile doctor's office. He tapped his foot incessantly, the rhythmic thud a counterpoint to the doctor's slow, deliberate explanations. His hands, usually steady when sketching, now fidgeted, tracing invisible patterns on the worn leather of the waiting room chair. This whole thing felt wrong, deeply wrong. The doctor had just informed him of the catastrophic error. His life story, his medical history, had become someone else's.
"So, the treatment plan... is based on... someone else'sā¦ condition?" Elias finally managed, his voice a strained whisper. The doctor nodded, his expression a mask of professional concern. Elias felt a wave of nausea, a sudden lurch in his stomach that threatened to spill the coffee he'd had earlier. He closed his eyes, visualizing the chaos of his body, suddenly an alien landscape.
He needed to get out. He rose abruptly, nearly knocking over a small side table. The doctor gestured to the door. "I'll have the correct records for you soon." The words felt hollow, like a promise spoken into a void. Elias mumbled a thank you and fled, the fluorescent lights of the corridor feeling harsh and unforgiving.