No somber mood of a patient lost to sour the rest of the day. No stress of having to go out into the waiting room to inform the family of the tragedy or ask permission for additional palliative care.
For all intents and purposes, this Monday was shaping up to be decent.
My nails hurt from scrubbing under them so vigorously, the water from the faucet stinging as I ran them under the hot stream. Even through the pain, the ritual needed to be complete, the dirt and grime long since washed away still feelingprevalent underneath the nail beds, bothering me to the point of hyperfocus.
A rather annoying symptom of a much larger problem I’d been ignoring since Sunday. Persistent and irritating. Not at all washed away no matter what I’d tried fixating on to move on from it.
Thoughts were seldom to haunt me. Even less to follow me home after leaving my place of work and driving me into fitful sleeps that felt as wasteful as staying up the entire night. At least if I had done that, I could’ve gotten some work done. Buried myself inside some medical texts and worked my brain hard enough to fall into a dreamless sleep on the couch until my alarm went off in the other room.
Instead, my ceiling had been the source of my entertainment for the past two nights. The rotation of the fan mocking me with each slow pass of the blades. A rich man’s version of counting sheep.
At this rate, I was beginning to suspect some kind of sickness had infected me—wormed into my brain in the same way syphilis did, or those stupid zombie movies Marlow loved to force Avery and I to watch with him once a month religiously.
At no point in my life had I ever suffered from something similar. My almost near-death illness in Switzerland hadn’t come close to the amount of sleep I was losing over this entire situation. At least back then, there was an excuse for the erratic behavior I was experiencing. Here in the present, there was no such justification outside of dizzying need.
That soft inhale he’d taken when my impulse to squeeze his waist had taken over. The muscles of his stomach twitching under my touch while running my fingers over them under the guise of inspecting his incisions.
At no point had I stopped myself when inspection morphed into curiosity. My oath as a doctor quickly being stripped awaythe second he’d slapped a hand over his mouth to cover up the soft sounds of what I could only guess was a moan, pulling me into the foggy haze of dominance that was supposed to be left at the front door of the hospital.
This was no place to experience sexual attraction, no matter how desirable the man under my care was, no matter how sensitive he seemed to the slightest brush of a hand over his bare skin.
What would he be like all dressed up?—
The water scalded my skin as I shoved my hands under the spray again.
These racing thoughts that were driving me fucking mad.
I didn’twant.
Itook.
Desire and yearning were for romantics. Something I’d never be—refused to.
“Dr. Montgomery…” The door swung shut behind Violet, her soft footsteps scuffing against the tiled floor toward me. Worst of all, I hadn’t noticed it opening in the first place, far too distractedyet again. “Terran Bishop is asking for a follow-up.”
“Discharge him.”
She reared back, clearly surprised by the quick decision. “You think he’s recovered enough for that? We just upped his pain meds yesterday. I don’t think?—”
He’d live. That was all that actually mattered.
He needed to get out of my fucking hospital ASAP.
Shutting off the water, I wrung my sore hands out twice before reaching for one of the paper towel dispensers hanging off the way, snagging two. “Do you get paid to question me?”
Her face fell instantly. There was a beat of silence that passed between us, picked up by neither of us to mend the bridge that had clearly just been scalded. “I’ll draft up the paperwork for you to sign.”
She spun around on her heel, marching back out into the hallway while shoving at the door to the scrub room hard enough to bang against the frame once it boomeranged back. Under normal circumstances, I’d be pulling her to the side to talk to her about her attitude problem.
Considering it was my fault this time around… I’d let it slide.
At least for the day.
Tomorrow would be a different story.
As I tossed the paper towels into the trash, the prevalent headache that had followed me into work this morning from lack of sleep still throbbed at the back of my skull. Ibuprofen had done shit and acetaminophen was fucking useless. I was stuck with it until I went home and crashed. When that would be, I had no clue.
My seventy-seven hour stretch rotation was only forty-nine deep at this point.
