Page 76 of The Ripper

Lana, as well as most of my coworkers, witnessed my many disappointments in the relationship department, and while they had no idea what they were talking about and I never corrected their assumptions, they all believed that I slept with all the men they saw me with.

Normally I didn’t care, as I decided not to fight fire with fire, but this time something inside me shifted, that thing that seemed to have awakened upon Fleur’s husband’s death, and it exploded when I heard her snide comment.

“Your interest in my sex life is getting out of hand, would you like some suggestions on how to spice up yours?” I said as I pulled on my lab coat.

“No, I was just wondering how long your STI list has gotten,” she replied.

I grinned. “Shall we piss in a cup and send it to the lab to see who has more? You know, since we make a competition out of everything.” I gave her a wink, then turned on my heels and left the changing room, not caring if she had any more to say.

I did my rounds, then went to the OR board and stared at it, biting my nails. It was something I did often, ever since my first day as an intern. Somehow, seeing all the names and procedures scheduled gave me a sense of stability, because no matter how chaotic I considered my life to be, looking at the board made my problems seem insignificant.

I was about to leave when my watch went off.

“ER?” I whispered to myself as I walked towards the elevator, confused.

It had been a while since I had been called down to the emergency room. Lana usually preferred to deal with broken bones and accident victims and such, and since she and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye, I asked to be called down only when there were mass casualties, and they couldn’t take care of them all.

A shiver ran down my spine as I imagined what was waiting for me down there. Massive car accident? Fire victims?

None of the scenarios I had in my head applied, because when I arrived in the emergency room, it was almost empty. I frowned and approached Lana, who was filling out a file.

Before I could ask anything, she turned to me. “Trauma 1,” she pressed the clipboard to my chest, “there’s a man with a laceration on his right arm, stitch him up.”

“Okay, but why did you call me? It doesn’t look like there’s much to do,” I said as I looked at the file.

“Has cardiology gotten to your head, Santino? You’re too good for the ER, or what?

“I know you don’t like having me around, is all.” I shrugged, ignoring her comment.

“He asked for you and refused to let anyone else treat him, so I’m filling out his file while you go take care of his wound,” she rolled her eyes. “Have you gone over to senior citizens now?”

I turned and walked towards the trauma room with the file in my hand, once again ignoring Lana and her comments, because I was itching to grab her hair and wipe the floor with her.

I was also shocked that someone had specifically asked for me, and curious at the same time. When I entered the room, I expected to see a familiar face, maybe one of the kids from the shelter, but I couldn’t recognize the man in front of me. He appeared to be in his sixties and had dark, short hair that was white on the sides. He was tall and well-built, as if he never missed a day at the gym in his life, and he was wearing pressed pants and a white T-shirt stained with blood.

“Good afternoon,” I smiled at him and turned my attention to his problem, ignoring the fact that I didn’t know him. “I’m Dr. Santino,” I introduced myself.

“I know,” he shook his head, and didn’t offer his name.

I put on a fresh pair of gloves, then took his arm in my hand and examined the wound.

“How did this happen?” I looked up at him.

“I cut myself shaving,” he replied with a thick accent, his voice sounding gruff although he didn’t seem to mean it.

I couldn’t suppress my laughter.

“Do you normally shave with serrated knives?” I raised an eyebrow as I prepared a syringe with a light, local anesthetic.

“How could you tell the blade?” His eyebrows shot up.

“Well, a straight edge knife would have given you a smooth cut,” I said, pointing to his wound. “Do you see how the edges of your skin are frayed? That tells me what kind of blade was used,” I explained.

He nodded, but not in understanding, but rather…proud.

“It was just an accident in the kitchen, I’m not much of a cook,” he said with a shrug.

“Yeah,” I giggled. “My boyfriend isn’t either,” I shook my head, smiling without intending to. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

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