CHANNILLO

Ghost
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He deserved it.

He did.

He knew he did.

He was an exceptional doctor. His colleagues were inferior and their skills mediocre. Christopher sat, the hard, unforgiving plastic of the chair digging into his back. The smell of disinfectant mixed with the sweet odour of sickness swirled uncertainly in the base of his stomach. Soft light reflected off the small animal stickers stuck to the wall, their bright colours contrasting the mood of the hospital. The noise; the constant, echoing tick of the clock began to slide across his nerves like glass. Sharp, but not enough to draw blood. He considered pacing but dismissed the idea. There was no need for fear; he had done well. He nonchalantly thought back through the last few weeks, and a small, unconscious smile formed on his dry lips.

Everyone had wa...

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