A giant, stereotypical clock on the wall’s ticks scream out and the fluorescent lights make the entire room seem eerie and impersonal. A stethoscope with a strange glare on its bell, one of those triangular rubber knee-hammers, and hundreds of other painful-looking little tools meant to prolong life rested on the counter, watching me. I squirm under their cold gaze and press the play button on my iPod. Mozart’s Lacrimosa pounds against my eardrums, rising and falling like the sea in a storm.

I had chosen not to sit on the patient’s table, instead resting in a green pleather chair meant for a parent or whoever else the patient came with. I rub my hands up my arms for friction to warm the goosebumps away and absently wonder why they keep hospitals so cold. Maybe it’s to keep the people who die from waiting so long cool. Like a morgue.

I want to snicker, realizing the music is making this dramatic moment even more like a soap opera. I want to. But I can’t. Not after just having had confirmed what I knew all along. Not after seeing Daddy’s eyes.

It knew he was back. I could feel him my tired, aching bones, in my dry hair, in my pale and bruised skin. I saw him in my dreams. They had told me it was all over, to just keep taking the pills until he faded away. But they were wrong. He hadn’t left me; he hid and waited until I let my guard down to return and shatter the fragile peacefulness I had just only settled into. And this time, he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

I pull my knees under my chin and wrap my arms around my legs, trying to focus on my dirty, red sneakers. They keep glancing over at me, Dr. Maddox in seriousness and Daddy in fear.

I sink farther into the uncomfortable chair, feeling rather than hearing it squeak. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and turn up the volume, hoping that Mozart will take me away from here to a place where He wasn’t.

But it’s too late. He just waltzes into the office and sits down in front of me, his perfect and familiar face smiling.