She looked away quickly, her breath catching as she whispered an apology under her breath.
“Sorry... I’m so sorry...”
But she continued.
Carefully. Respectfully.
The silence in the room shifted.
It became less about fear—and more about restraint.
Something in their behavior told me they understood exactly what they were dealing with.
Or more accurately—who.
They cleaned every wound.
Applied ointment with careful precision.
Replaced the ruined gauze with fresh, sterile layers, wrapping my knees gently but firmly, ensuring support without causing more pain.
Then—the injection.
They explained it in soft, careful tones.
Pain relief.
A mild sedative.
Something to help my body begin to recover.
I barely felt the needle go in.
Only the faint pressure.
Then warmth spreading slowly through my system.
When they were finished—the older nurse stepped forward and helped me down from the table.
My legs gave out almost immediately.
They simply weren’t ready.
Or maybe—
I wasn’t.
But she caught me before I fell.
Her arm wrapped around my waist, steady and firm, anchoring me upright without hesitation.
“Easy,” she murmured. “We’ve got you.”
We moved slowly.
The younger nurse supported my other side as they guided me toward the bathroom.
“There’s a private bathroom just through that door,” the older one said.
