The 5 Stages of Grief

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Chapter 7, Marcus

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me! The grumbling in his gut told him it must be lunchtime somewhere in the world. He looked at his watch again. This is fucking ridiculous, when does this guy take a lunch break? He reached into his pocket carefully retrieving the folded schedule as not to make the slightest sound. He began to unfold it, one crease at a time. It took forever. Paper was unbelievably loud when you were attempting to be silent. Forget the paper, it’s a miracle they hadn’t heard his stomach already as he was sure they could hear it halfway across the City if they concentrated.

Finally, the paper open, he held it out from under the table to catch some hallway light. He waited for his eyes to adjust, focusing on the agenda held steady in his hand.

Holly had been first. Such a sweet girl. He smiled, remembering her.

Then that asshole, Grant, had burst in. A rush of anger surged, transforming him from calm to rage in an instant. He recognized the wave, the flood of adrenaline and testosterone and started counting, one-two-three-four-five-slower – six – slower – slow your heartbeat… seven… eight – calm – nine… ten. He’d been on the verge of storming out of the room and pummeling that jerk to within an inch of his life when the Doctor had ordered the dick-wad out of the room. What an arrogant bastard that waste-of-skin was. It still worked him up just looking at the fuckhead’s name. That had been a long hour that was for sure. Though he could not see his skin or much else from where he crouched, he was sure he spent the session a bright shade of purple.

That weirdo, Jeremy, came next. As arrogant an ass as Grant was, that was Jeremy – only opposite. He sounded like some whiny control freak. A eunuch that had to get his way or he wouldn’t play, would take his shovel and pail and go home. The kinda guy you just wanted to bash in the head, just for the pleasure of it. As much as I hate that prick Grant, I hate that sniveling pussy Jeremy, more. So another hour of listening to someone he couldn’t stand whimper to the Doctor about – who the fuck cares? It had to be over soon, both his watch and his stomach agreed.

Was that the door? Had the sniveler Jeremy left during his inner-rant? Who was the Doctor talking with now? He listened, carefully, trying to make out the newest voice in the room. He’d modified his plan. He would surprise the Doctor during lunch as the Doctor ate in his office more often than not. You would think with being a fancy doctor that he would go out to some nice restaurant in the area, where they knew him by name and he had his own table as a regular. At least that’s what Marcus figured a doctor’s life to be like. But no, the Doc actually brown bagged it. I bet you it’s that bitch wife of his that makes him do that! She spends money on anything and everything and he has to bring shit sandwiches to work for lunch. Just one more reason he needs someone to look out for him, take care of the details so to speak. He’s going to be so happy when he finally hears the news.

Marcus smiled through the winces, trying to unfold his screaming legs. It would take a while this time, but it would be worth it. The gratitude and gratefulness he would soon witness upon the Doctor’s face would make his endurance, the pain, trivial. He would suffer a thousand times over to see a smile on Dr. Reichmann’s face. It would all be over soon. As soon as this guy leaves, he can step out and change the Doctor’s life forever.

Why was the guy not leaving? Marcus could still hear the deep voice from the other room. Not the Doctor’s voice at all – no way.

Is that meatloaf or something I smell? Had the guy brought Dr. Reichmann lunch? He listened carefully for five minutes or so before giving in, admitting that was indeed what had taken place. Someone had brought the good Doctor lunch and they were in the process of eating together in the Doctor’s office.

Marcus stood within the supply room, counting to come to grips with another change of plans.

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