Mr Williams - BBC Route

The clinic looked like it had been condemned before the last election. Peeling paint curled off the walls in cancerous flakes, and the reception desk—if you could call it that—was just a folding table with a handwritten "SIGN IN" sticky note curling at the edges. A single ceiling fan wobbled on its axis, each rotation spraying dust motes into the shafts of sunlight piercing through boarded-up windows. The air smelled like antiseptic and something worse underneath—the metallic tang of old blood soaked into floorboards.

Jeremy leaned against the chipped doorframe, arms crossed over his chest as Mom fidgeted with her skirt hem. "Picked the doc myself," he said, grinning like a cat with a canary stuck in its throat. "Hired the ugliest black gyno I could find." His eyes locked onto mine as he licked his lips. "Wanted to share my luck."

I raised an eyebrow. Gynecologists can be male? I imagined Mom lying in front of him, pussy spread, as he palpated her cervix—cold fingers probing where Jeremy had been hours before. The mental image made bile rise in my throat.

Jeremy snorted at my expression. "Bet you never thought you'd be jealous of a nigger touching your mom's pussy," he said, cracking his knuckles. Mom seemed not to notice. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt—not from modesty, but from the way Jeremy's palm smacked her ass hard enough to make the silk ripple.

Click! The door swung open to reveal a man that looked homeless. His dreadlocks hung limp with grease, the frayed ends brushing against shoulders speckled with what might've been psoriasis or meth sores. The stench hit first—old weed and stale sweat with an undertone of iodine. His lab coat was stained yellow at the armpits, the nametag reading "Dr. Williams" dangling crookedly from one loose thread.

Mom's breath hitched when he smiled, as if savouring his first patient in weeks. Jeremy guided mom forward by the waist. "Dr. Williams, this is Mary," he gestured to Mom's plentiful bust, concealed by her fortunate choice of turtleneck.

The doctor’s yellowed fingernails tapped the clipboard as he eyed Mom’s silhouette—the way her blouse strained against her chest with each nervous breath, the subtle sway of her hips beneath the tight skirt. "First prenatal?" His voice was gravelly, like he’d spent the morning gargling bleach. Mom opened her mouth to correct him, but Jeremy cut in.

"Do what you need to do, Doc." Jeremy's fingers dug into Mom's waist as he pushed her forward, making her stumble into the exam room. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving me in the waiting area with peeling posters of reproductive anatomy curling at the edges. The muffled sounds of metal instruments clattering made my jaw clench—each metallic ping like a hammer driving nails into my father's coffin.