Due to some recent changes at work, I find myself starting the day at 6:30am. At this time of the morning, few people are awake enough to brave a visit to the physical therapist. These few people fight for their undesirable morning appointments and let the rest of mankind sleep. On a particular morning, this last week, I groggily shuffled into the clinic to see it abandoned and dark. Bringing life to the clinic, I went about my morning duties anxiously awaiting the arrival of the day's first patient. Due to some strategically placed illnesses and cancellations, fate had left me with a seemingly easy morning until after 7:30am when the first zombies would sleep walk in for some morning therapy.
While my boss worked busily in his office, I stood behind my desk silently surveying the carnage from the epic battle between sleep and consciousness that was being fought inside of me. Suddenly, I was violently ripped from the gripping war by a sound so unwelcome, yet oddly soothing. Rain. I love summer rain. I have always been intrigued by the warm thunderstorms of late summer. But this rain was different. My mind was quickly filled with panic as I felt the warm sun taunting me through the window. How could I be hearing rain without a cloud in the sky? I raced around the corner as fast as my stocky legs could carry me only to hit a brick wall of horror. What stood before me left me frozen with fear. I tried to scream but no sound would escape my lips. I stood face to face with a tropical monsoon cascading from the water birth center upstairs through the ceiling tiles of treatment room #3.
Heart racing, I instinctively grabbed towels and garbage cans in a feeble attempt to control the flood. With every drop or splatter of water that touched my skin, I could literally see the bacteria eating away at my flesh. I was blasted with a fine mist of afterbirth and std's and I will never be the same.
As I sat recovering in the office, I was ignorantly informed that the tidal wave of precipitation had been caused by a pregnant mother who unknowingly plugged the drain to her shower as the water spilled onto the floor. I am no idiot. This "leak," as they call it, was a direct and intentional attack against myself. To the people upstairs: The next time your water breaks, I'll be ready.