Ficlets

Not The Standard Procedure

An alarm siren began to blare, tunelessly, somewhere in the building. With a satisfied smile (and just a hint of smugness), the doctor turned and strode back through the door, ready for the standard procedure.

He was surprised to be met, not by the sight of a young woman huddled defensively in the corner, but by the sight of her fist, around three inches from his face and closing fast. With a thud, it connected; his glasses flew off, spinning madly away into the corner of the room.

Instantly, he had his hands over his eyes as he dropped into a defensive crouch, trying desperately to avoid the blows raining down. Unfortunately, this placed him ideally for a swift kick in the ribs.

Sprawling on the floor, he felt the girl’s thin hands close around his wrists. Slowly, but inexorably, his own hands were dragged away from his face.

In the few seconds before darkness closed in, he noted that the girl’s eyes (now mere inches away) were bloodshot, dilated, and filled with the most intense rage he had ever seen.

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