There's nothing I hate more than doctor offices. I hate the stench of antiseptic mingling with sickness, the plain white walls, the tables littered with magazines that are three years old, and especially how doctors seem to think that they are the shit. I mean really, doctors think they can play God and when they save lives they expect some praise, but when they lose a life, they act like they did all they could, when I know for a fact that they didn't.

     I hate anticipation. I hate waiting for news that is life-altering. I hate the fact that these damn doctors take their damn time telling me what the fuck is up.

     But wait...there is something I hate more than hospitals themselves.

     It has iced blue eyes, a shadow of a grin, and curly blonde hair. Oh, sure on the outside he may seem like the image of perfection, but I know better, I know that in the inside lies a dark soul that is decrepit, dark, and menacing.

     The world knows me him as Justin Timberlake, but I know him as my father.

     Say what you want, go ahead and judge me.

     Everyone else does anyway.

     I look into his eyes, and I can‘t help but abhor the similarity between us appearance wise. We may have the same blonde curly hair, the same blue eyes, and the same smirk (at least that what my mom says), but that is the only thing, the only thing I have in common with that...thing.

     I know he is trying to say something comforting, something to reassure me, but alas, he decides to keep quiet.

     Hah, tell me something new.

     "Carly..." he said, which in fact startled me. Didn't even know he knew my name.

     I decide to ignore him, suddenly becoming interested in a lint ball on my chair.

     "Carly..." he repeated, this time putting his hand on my knee.

     I can't ignore him again, because unlike him, I was raised with manners and respect for someone other than myself.

     "What, dad?" I snapped, feeling my skin flush with anger.

     "I just...I just wanted to let you know that whatever happens...I'll be there," he said, looking me straight in the eyes.

     I snorted. "Uh huh. Sure dad. Whatever you fucking say."

     His face contorted into a frown. "Don't use that language around me, young lady."

     "Um...excuse me?" I objected. "But since when could you tell me what to do?"

     "Carly..." he repeated for the third time, and I can't fucking take it anymore.

     "I'm glad you know my fucking name, dad," I snarled.

     "Look, I will not tolerate you talking to me like that," he scolded, and I couldn't help but chuckle. I mean, how convenient of him it is to start acting like a father when there is no one else around.

     "Don't tell me what to do," I said solemnly, glaring right into his eyes, daring him to say another word.

     "Carly, I'm your father, and nothing you can do will change that," he lectured.

    "Father? Did you seriously say father?" I laughed so loud, the people in the waiting room stared.

     Good. Maybe then they can see that Justin Timberlake isn't as perfect as everyone makes him out to be.

     "Yes, Carly, your father," he emphasized, as if I were stupid or something.

     I snorted again, I couldn't help it. "You call yourself father, but when were you ever there dad? When? When's the last time you got me a Christmas present? When-"

     "I sent you a Christmas present-"

     "-Yeah a fucking Barbie doll and some cash. And it wasn't even you who gave me the present. It was fucking Trace. I see Trace more than I even see you." I noted, I could feel my hands shake in anger. "The money might've worked on mom, but it sure as hell won't work on me. When was the last time you ever went to one of my chorus concerts? Where were you when I fell from my bike and broke my leg? Oh..."I stopped for a moment. "That's right you were too busy. I bet you don't even know how old I am." I said in disgust.

     "Of course I know how old you are. You're..." he hesitated.

     "My point exactly. Sixteen, dad. Sixteen." I shrunk back in my chair, picking up the magazine I dropped on the floor.

     "Listen...I wasn't...I didn't mean..." he stuttered, and for once in my life I made Justin Timberlake speechless.

     "Just save it dad. Save it for one of your stupid superficial songs on your next album. Save it for one of your crazed fans." I almost yelled.

      "Carly..." he whimpered.

     "Don't you have anything better to say than my fucking name?" I yelled, unable to keep my composure.

     "Carly...quiet somebody might hear you," he murmured.

     "OH! Sorry dad! I wasn't thinking about you. God forbid someone overhears us and learns that," I covered my mouth with my hand and came close to his ear. "That perfect Justin Fucking Timberlake has a child!" I pretended to be in horror. "What will the tabloids say? Oh no! Poor Justin Tim-"

     I stopped as the doctor made his way across the room.

     I saw the look in his eyes, and I knew.

     "Carly...we did all that we could do...but your mom-"

     I screamed before he could even finish his sentence.