Prompt for February 7: Four Lines of Prose about the Clinic


[Prompt from .]

I never thought in a million years I’d be sitting in this god-forsaken cold waiting room with the scantily clad women staring up at me with their fake eyes on the glossy covers of their magazines. I knew the receptionist was judging me; I pulled the edges of my cardigan closer together across my chest, adjusting my skirt so that as little of my legs showed as possible.

My hand flew to my stomach as I mumbled both a prayer of forgiveness and a prayer of protection. When the nurse called me back into the depths of the clinic, I could only hope that God really was all forgiving.


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