Jim Parkins, MD, hesitated at the break room door. He half-considered eating lunch in the bathrooms again, but he couldn't bear the thought of his coworkers talking about him behind his back. Best to just get it over with, he told himself.
The sniggers began as soon as he opened the door. All the other doctors watched him expectantly, barely containing their mirth. As usual, all the good seats had been taken by the time Jim arrived, and the only one left was in the corner, right next to the waste-basket, wedged between the table and the vending machine. Bastards.
As he walked up to his seat, he heard a stifled giggle behind him. He spun around, but whoever it was regained their composure before he could see who it was.
Buchanan was sitting across from Jim's seat. He didn't offer to help Jim in. He didn't even try to shift the table. He just sat there with that stupid smirk on his face. Jim awkwardly crawled over the table to the last remaining seat, his face reddening at the thought of all the eyes on him.
Jim stared down at his lap as he started to eat his food. He'd never asked for this. He didn't want the nightmares at night, or the stutter he'd had ever since the war. He certainly didn't want this ungrateful lot of crewmates, but when you've signed up for five years on a Marine ship in the depths of space, reassignments are hard to come by.
He was pulled from his thoughts when a crumpled soft drink can hit him sharply on the forehead. He looked up, rubbing the mark it had left. "Watch out, P-P-P-Parkins!" someone shouted. They were mocking him now. They did this every day, pretending to throw something into the garbage chute behind him, but instead just hitting him in the head. Tears stinging his eyes, he concentrated very hard on his sandwich. "If you ignore them, they'll leave you alone" people were always telling him. Why didn't it work, then? Why wouldn't they just leave him be? Most importantly, why was this chair even here?
