Gemotions

He’d always suspected it. That vague fatigue, those headaches that wouldn't quit. Now, staring at the printout detailing the other patient's treatment for a debilitating autoimmune disease, Mark felt a coldness creep into his bones. His own file, it turns out, contained someone else's life, someone else's pain. He reread the name at the top – a woman who, according to her records, was a marathon runner.

He balled up the papers, the ink smearing under his tight grip. His palms were sweating. The receptionist had offered him a weak apology, a promise to “rectify the situation immediately.” Rectify? It was a farce. He imagined this "marathon runner" merrily receiving his allergy shots, blithely unaware of the swapped identities and the implications of his own, healthy medical history.

Mark almost laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that echoed through the empty waiting room. He didn’t want to be "rectified." He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. He would get to the bottom of this, and by damn, he would make sure everyone knew the injustice of it all.