Can they fix a wounded soul in the hospital?
Patch it up so I don’t cry myself to sleep anymore?
She quietly jots down something on her tablet, then sets it down. “I need to put this on to take your vitals.” The ripping sound of the velcro cuff echoes within our curtained room.
Obediently, I hold out my arm, open my mouth for the thermometer, extend a finger for the oxygen sensor.
Like a guinea pig.
She tapes some wires to my chest, and must see my eyebrow go up.
“This is to check your heart since you said your chest hurt.”
The mountains and valleys of the beats appear with a beep on a computer screen next to me. A patient ID code is all it has on there.
That’s me.
Digits.
How many other numbers come in like me?
She slides the plastic rod from under my tongue and clicks the cover into the garbage. “Let me get the doctor.”
When I hear the slide of the curtain, I close my eyes.
If I squeeze hard enough, maybe I’ll wake up to find this is all a nightmare.
My nurse and a deep voice are having a discussion, but I can’t understand the words.
Yet I can hear the anger in his tone.
Shit. This isn’t my fault.
When the partition is ripped away, a towering man with dark hair and mustache stands in its place, blocking the light.
His navy blue scrubs grip his body like they’re a size too small.
When he leans closer, I can see his honey colored eyes narrow and his sharp jaw tighten.
“Who did this to you?” he growls.
Chapter 2
Dixon
The shit always happensin threes.
This morning it was a ten year old girl who was thrown around by the neighbor’s son.
Lunch brought a seventy-three year old woman who had been slapped by her granddaughter. What a worthless caretaker.
With help like that, no wonder so many choose to hide away in their homes.
“Twenty-four year old female presenting with head, chest and leg pain in bed three.” Maggie’s lips thin as she stares down at her tablet. “The admitting clerk said that it was possibly the ex-husband.”
My fist clenches.
What the fuck is wrong with people?