The Clinic Wings Are Unmarked

The hallway is linoleum, yellowed and marked with decades of yellow tape. The institutional smell of antiseptic and old coffee hangs heavy. A portrait hangs on the wall, the varnish flaking, depicting me and the corner of the school building. My face is faint in the photograph, a smudge of graphite on the edges. I stand before a door, the paint peeling down to raw wood. When I push it open, there is not a room, but another door standing exactly where the frame used to be. The second door is polished mahogany, and it has no knob. I place my hand against the wood, feeling the weight of a name I do not carry.