1 – Enigma
Mildred Fauster was a woman in her mid-twenties.
With only this information, perhaps it was surprising to know that she was visiting her eighth grade English teacher. She hadn’t really been all that inclined to the middle-aged, desperately-trying-hard-to-be-young man, but after having been published for the first time (something she had only dreamed of until recently), she decided it was only fair that she ought to give some credit to Mr. Proctor.
It was going to be easy: Especially since he was an Intensive Care patient.
Mildred found out only a few months ago what had happened years before. Mr. Proctor had been in a car crash, went into coma and had never come out of it. He’d become a complete vegetable on a life-support machine.
Or something along those lines, anyway.
As she passed through the automatic doors, the sterile atmosphere hit Mildred immediately as she stepped into the hospital, the smell of the flowers in her hands becoming sickeningly intense. Perhaps it was only her, but she was always peeved off by the feeling she got when she entered a hospital. She swallowed, and walked up to the reception counter.
“Um…” she hesitated as the receptionist appeared too engrossed with the computer screen in front of him to pay her any attention.
He looked up and smiled at her – happy to see a pretty face, “How may I help you, miss?”
“Well, I…” she coughed lightly, “I’m looking for a Mr. Sean Proctor. He should be in the Intensive Care Unit.”
The receptionist snorted, “Well, if he’s there, he probably hasn’t moved,” he punched some keys on the keyboard in front of him, “You some relative of his?”
“Oh, no. I’m his student.”
The receptionist looked up at her, a little surprised, “A student? He a university lecturer?”
“An eighth grade English teacher.”
The receptionist hooted, “Alrighty, then,” he punched some more keys, starting to look a little confused, “Date of birth?”
This Mildred could recall. She had once offered to read Mr. Proctor his horoscope, but the date came to her slowly, “Seventh, March… 1973?”
The receptionist keyed in the date and stared at the screen for a long time, not saying anything.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, at last, “There ain’t no Mr. Sean Proctor of 7th March 1973 around here.”