The spartan room had everything in its place. Blinds covered the only window and had been drawn closed cutting off my view to the outside and allowing only the barest amount of sunlight to enter. On the bedspread lay a pale-blue, lightly patterned hospital gown. The nurse told me to change into the gown and that someone would be along shortly for surgery preparations.
Man, these Samoans are a surly bunch.
I undressed fully, feeling a bit of shame at my nakedness, and feeling utterly alone. Yet at the same time there was the sense that the whole world was watching my every movement, that the walls had grown eyes, wide and scrutinizing, examining my naked body, laughing at me.
Vote Republican.
Now dressed in the gown, I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. I could hear voices from deep inside the hospital; murmuring from behind closed doors, coming up through the sink's drainpipe. They were voices of warning, tinny and distant, telling me to flee while I still could. Each one grew louder, faster, over taking each other, becoming a blur of verbiage that blended together into a crushing roar.
My penis itches. And she said she was clean. Bitch.