NOTE: This isn't a comedy, sorry. I thought I'd try a little excersize in introspection whilst deciding what to do with my feeble attempt at writing Angst (a genre which I seem to have trouble *spelling* at times!
)
After this, I think I'll head back to the comedy mines. In the meantime, though, I hope you enjoy this.
Bad News
by Mary Potts
__________________________
I hate being the bearer of bad news.
When Superman first came to me with this, I was---well, I was shocked, but also flattered, in a way. The Man of Steel is a very private person, and for him to trust me like this is very humbling.
Now, though, I almost wish that he'd trusted someone else instead.
I check my notes and the test results again, but it's pointless. The results won't be any different from what they were the last time I checked.
He's going to be devastated.
I step out of my office and see him standing outside my door, waiting, looking at me as though I were holding all of his greatest hopes and worst fears in my hands. I am not a miracle worker! My eyes drop down to the clipboard in my hand. Whether he wanted a son who would follow in his boot-prints, or just a normal, happy family, I don't quite know, but this news can shatter both.
"Well?" he prompts.
"I'm afraid it doesn't look good," I tell him. It's best to be honest, here.
I wish this were someone else standing here talking to him. I wish I didn't have to stand here, look him in the eye, and tell him-----
"What do you mean, Dr. Friskin?"
I sigh and lower the clipboard. "Superman, I'm afraid your son has Schizophrenia."
There. I've said it. And as I watch the reaction in his face, I can see the exact moment when everything shatters for him.
I hate being the bearer of bad news.
