Chapter 7 - The Smell of Despair
We finally arrived at the maternity emergency entrance of the General Hospital.
The chaos inside was overwhelming. There were pregnant women sitting on plastic chairs, some crying quietly, others leaning on nervous husbands. Nurses in blue scrubs rushed down the corridors, and the distinct, nauseating smell of industrial pine cleaner, rubbing alcohol, and human despair hung heavily in the air.
I dragged my feet across the linoleum, following Doña Carmen, who was walking briskly, clearly annoyed by her surroundings. Every single step I took felt like walking on shattered glass. My vision was swimming.
We reached the reception desk. There was a line of three people waiting to be processed. I couldn't wait. My legs were giving out.
I broke away from Doña Carmen and threw my upper body against the metal counter, gasping for breath.
"Miss... please," I pleaded with the triage nurse, a middle-aged woman wearing thick glasses who was rapidly typing on an old keyboard. "I need a doctor. It hurts so much... this isn't normal."
The nurse looked up, her eyes scanning my pale, sweating face and my large belly.
"Are you experiencing any bleeding, ma'am? Has your water broken?" she asked professionally.
"I... I don't know," I whispered, feeling the strength drain from my arms. "I just feel like I am burning from the inside out."
Suddenly, Doña Carmen appeared right behind me. Her bony, manicured fingers clamped down hard onto my upper arm, exactly where Diego had left a massive, claw-shaped bruise three days prior.
I let out a sharp, involuntary squeak of pain as her nails dug into my injured flesh.
"Excuse me, miss," Doña Carmen addressed the nurse, using her haughty, upper-class tone, designed to make working-class people feel small. "Please ignore her. She is a first-time mother and highly prone to exaggeration. I just brought her in so you can give her some paracetamol for her cramps. You know how these young girls are."
The nurse frowned, clearly unhappy with my mother-in-law's attitude.
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"Ma'am," the nurse interrupted firmly. "The patient is extremely pale and diaphoretic. I need to take her vital signs immediately. Please have a seat in the..."
Before the nurse could finish her sentence, Doña Carmen yanked me away from the counter by my injured arm, dragging me forcefully toward the rows of blue plastic waiting chairs.
