Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Negative Positive

It was hell waiting for the results. I knew everything would be okay—well, I hoped it would. One slip-up is nothing, right? When the doctor came into the room, the look on his face made my bladder lose control of itself for a few seconds. He ran a sweaty hand through what little hair was on his head and said we needed to take more tests.

I asked the questions, the ones any of us would: you know, life, death, and all the things in between. But he couldn’t give me an answer, or wouldn’t. Either way, I wasn’t going to get the answers I needed then and there. He handed me a container and said it was important to get on top of it all before it’s too late.

Too late? What the fuck does that mean?

He pointed me in the direction of the toilets. I did my business and quickly returned to him with an overflowing container. He looked at me, put on a glove and took it, then handed me another container.

“What’s this for?” I asked him.

He said they needed another sample, one I would have to work for. I knew what he meant. Again, I asked him what could possibly be wrong with me that would require a urine sample and now a semen sample. He once more brushed off my question with a “it’s just a precaution” answer.

So, I went to a room they had secluded in the back. It was kitted out with all the things one would need: books, DVDs, and access to the internet, for people with more obscure needs than what the rest provided. I can tell you, I’ve never worked as hard as I did at that moment to get my rocks off. The beast wouldn’t stand; he didn’t want to know about anything in case there was something wrong with his equipment, and I didn’t blame him. But after fifteen minutes of coaxing, he delivered what the doctor needed, and I quickly ran back to his office.

The fucker had taken another patient by that time, but I barged in anyway, sweat running down my face. I thrust the half-full container of my little guys into the young woman’s face that he was seeing at the time. I don’t know who was more embarrassed; in the end, I think it was me.

The doctor took the sample and asked me to wait in the adjacent room, which I did, for twenty-five minutes. Finally, he came walking, nervously I might add, into the room. My heart jumped, the room started to close in, I tightly gripped the seat, and wet myself once more. He started off by apologising to me, saying how sorry he was. I cried, even screamed I think. He tried to calm me down, but I just pushed him away, demanding to know how long I had left, to know what was wrong with me.

He started to yell, pleading for me to listen, saying that there had been a mistake with my first round of tests and that everything was clear—I was fine. I collapsed into the seat, relieved. I could feel my heart slowly returning to normal, and the room expanded again; everything once more was back to normal.

Then, calmly, he started explaining to me how there had been an accident in the labs. My test, he told me, hardly ever happens, and he was so sorry. I was relieved to be alive, to be given this second chance, and thanked him for being so thorough, that he had nothing to be sorry for. We shook hands. He apologised once more and said he’d let the girls at the front counter know I was on my way so I could arrange a paym…

That’s the last thing he said to me, as I drove a solid left hook into his jaw, knocking him to the ground, then stormed out. If I wanted to pay someone to scare me half to death, I’d still be married to my ex-wife.