Page 18 of Dirty Game
He nods and sets to work.
The examination is clinical—powdered gloves, gentle prodding, questions asked in a soft monotone. “Rate your pain, one to ten.”
“Any numbness?”
“Dizzy?”
She answers with as few syllables as possible.
I watch her knuckles turn white as Powell raises his eyebrows at her bruises.
She doesn’t look at me, but I know she can feel my eyes.
I watch the doctor’s hands instead, noting every tremor, every bead of sweat.
He’s nervous.
Powell unwraps a sterilized packet and dabs antiseptic along the abrasion on her wrist.
She hisses in pain, and my fingers twitch at my side.
I want to cross the room, close the gap, pull her hand into mine, and promise it’ll never happen again.
But I don’t because caring is weakness.
I keep my arms folded across my chest, tight enough to constrict my breathing.
“Sprained, not broken,” Powell says. “Some swelling, but I’ll wrap it. Ice and elevation for the next twenty-four hours. I can give you something for the pain.”
She shakes her head, jaw clamped. “No.”
He hesitates, then nods and splints her arm.
He’s quick. Efficient.
When he finishes, he gives me a look—Is there anything else?—and I dismiss him with a flick of my chin.
The door clicks shut behind him. The silence is immediate, absolute.
She flexes her hand, testing the range of motion.
I watch the movement, fascinated.
Every shift of her fingers is mesmerizing, like she’s gritting her teeth to the world:still here, still whole.
Her face is unreadable in the harsh white light, but the set of her mouth is different—less afraid, more resigned.
“You should let me kill him,” I say, not because I want to, but because it’s true.
She looks up, finally. “You’re not my father.”
I scoff. “No. I’m worse.”
She studies me, eyes blue as a winter morning, cold and unblinking. “Why?”
“Because I don’t lie to myself about what I am.” I walk to the window, stare out over the city. “He’ll come back. Next time, he’ll bring a knife or a gun or something worse.”
“I know,” she says. Not a trace of fear.
