As a doctor she had seen it all: from the common cold to full-blown terminal illnesses to people who were just hypochondriacs.
But she had never experienced this before. Well, at least, not on this level.
The man sat before her, arms crossed, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a firm line.
“So what’s wrong with me?” he demanded to know.
She smiled sweetly. “Oh, where do I start?” she replied.
He looked up at her sharply. Everyone was right, he was sick. He knew it.
“Am I going to die?” he asked, his tone of voice clearly different now that he had realised the severity of the situation.
“We are all going to die… at some point, but no you won’t die from what you have.”
She sat, pondering her next words. “But what you have there is no cure for. At least, not in a pill form, although I wish there was.” She smiled to herself again.
Ah, fuck it, she thought. I can’t be professional about this, I just have to be direct.
The man was shifting in his seat and the arrogant body language was back.
“What’s wrong with me?!” he asked again.
She leant forward and motioned him to come closer.
“You sir,” she whispered quietly, “are an A-grade asshole.”