I look ahead and see endless rows of red, piercing flares ahead of our car.
There’s been a pile up. My saviour. I sigh a heavy breath of relief as the sweat dries off my coated palms and shimmering face. A smile cleaves its way onto my face. Phew.
But then, my senses pick up a minute movement at the front of the metallic snake ahead of us
No. No. No, this can’t be. I thought this was over. I thought I was free. Before I know it, droplets of salty water form on my hand and forehead. It starts all over again. The booming engine of the car tearing down the A42 resonates in my ears as every little bump in the road rattles my spine and sends a spray of sweat flying in all directions.
The car shrieks to a stop, causing a deathly ringing in my ears. I clumsily flop out of the car and begin my dreaded journey to the place of my demise. My mum escorts me to the entrance like the Grim Reaper on the journey into the underworld. I step inside to sniff the intoxicating fumes of disinfectant and caffeinated beverages.
Beeps and whirrs are emitted from various contraptions scattered about the pristine white, shimmering hallways. Long, painted nails tap on wide, button-littered machines from behind the eroding wooden desk, muttering details and gossip among themselves.
I take a seat on one of the blue chairs circled around the central hall, and tightly grip my fingers into the decaying fabric coating the soft sponge material encased within.
The various models pressed onto the vivid posters on the high walls closely encircle me, staring down from above, scanning me and judging me from their position of superiority.
A man slips out of a door in front of me, and begins to walk towards me.
No. Please. Not yet. I’m not ready.
He approaches, closer and closer. I sit frozen in anticipation of what he is going to say. Air exits and enters my lungs at a rate I can’t even believe. Waterfalls of sweat drip down my forehead, pouring into my already waterlogged eyebrows.
“Mr Davison, are you ready for your checkup?”