[attr="class","dibody3"]
It had been five months since the incident. Five months of visiting the hospital for check-ups - both for the heart attack and the gunshot wound, though, the latter had proven to be easier to deal with. Who would have thought the aftercare after suffering a heart attack would be so tedious. Roman had all sorts of health care workers come to him to explain, talk, help. He was told his physical fitness had taken a toll and he wasn't allowed to presume his work immediately. He had to start slow - very slow - and work his way up until he would be given the green light. It took five months.

Just when he thought everything would be somewhat back to normal the scar tissue around the entry wound started causing problems. Without hesitation, he was sent to the hospital - forced to take a day off. He would have normally gone to the General Hospital downtown but since the riots left it partly destroyed and the numbers of infected were steadily rising it was just overwhelmed with work. He borrowed his friend's car and drove to the suburbs to visit the smaller clinic. Roman remembered it from his childhood, a light shudder creeping up because he never liked it. He had a natural aversion to hospitals but as an adult, he could deal with it if he had to.

Roman parked the car outside and walked through the main entrance, the double doors automatically sliding open as he approached the sensor. The hospital smell hit him immediately, wrapping itself around his nose. He disinfected his hands, pumping some sanitizer into his palms, before walking over to the front desk. Even though he had called earlier he was told to wait - for how long they didn't know. They also handed him a paper to register himself and a pain evaluation chart.

The commanding officer took the documents and a pen from the nurse, making his way to one of the empty counters on the side. He tapped the pen against the surface - tap, tap, tap - eyebrows drawn together as he stared at the rate your pain from 1 to 10 section on the form. Filling out everything else including his personal information was a breeze. But that one question felt like an unexpected pop quiz back in school. His hand moved to his abdomen, patting the area around the scar lightly. He let out a sharp wince, tilting his head. He wasn't sure... was it a 6? Or an 8? Maybe it was just a 4 and he was overreacting?

The buzz of his phone interrupted his attempt at evaluating the pain - and he didn't mind. He fished it out of his pocket, one hand still busy tapping the pen against the counter, the other moving around the screen to check his messages when the sudden sound of a nearby explosion rang in his ears, head jerking up from the small screen.