By Adil Arshad, student pharmacist
8:00AM:
British rain drizzles onto my eyelids,
Smearing the streets into a collage of grey.
It’s like the world wants me to cry so badly
That it’s pre-filling my eyes for the rest of the day.
But no. I walk tall. I will not be broken by yesterday
Or the day before that or the day before that.
Today is a fresh page in the notebook.
Mistakes happen. I don’t care what they say.
8:30AM:
The front door screams shut and pairs of eyes fall on me,
From a sea of green gowned backs huddled over a PC.
“He’s just come in”, “I’m surprised”, “Embarrassing”, “I agree”.
The Bowl of Hygieia on my chest starts quivering rapidly.
Approaching the front desk, the clerk and I swap furtive smiles.
It feels rough and unwelcome like an illicit over-the-counter deal.
Move on. I crane my neck between the Buscopan and GP files
To find a nook or cranny – yes, there’s one! It’s just enough to see.
On their screen is a sticker wrapped on a bottle, clenched in a palm.
The palm is sweaty and claret red.
It belongs to an arm which belongs to a body. The body is dead.
I squint at the sticker, at the signature on the box. It’s mine: the aspiring MPharm.
9:00AM:
The sporty girl’s inhaler which lets her run track,
My friend’s celecoxib which eases the pain in his back.
Names flick through my fingers as I check today’s scripts
Until I land on the name that can hardly pass through my lips.
A blunder in the system, one final churning through the basket
As I stare at the script like the palm has crawled out of the casket.
The script is cancelled, torn and pushed deeply in the bin.
My eyes can’t help but trickle at seeing the prescription box refill.
