Flash Fiction: Darryl Terrell

I take the bus to the doctor’s office on Elm Street, two blocks from our old house. I like when it stops in front of my old high school. “Look who’s alive?” I say aloud. My mother’s words. In the waiting room, I sit next to a woman and her child. “Sorry—she’s two—” the mother explains, removing her from my arm. A door opens. A nurse in pink scrubs calls out: “Malcom?” I wave my hand—the one that let me swallow a bottle of sleeping pills last month. I follow her and she gestures to a metal scale. I feel naked and large as it calculates my body-fat. “My perfect boy,” my mother might say. “Last check-in?” the nurse asks me. I nod. I’ll do better this time, Mom. I promise.

Written by: Emily Capone

Photo Editor: Kahdeem Prosper Jefferson