The quiet beeping almost matches the rhythm of the wall clock. Most people would be annoyed by this, but not me. There is order in the sound. The almost silent pattern soothes me. The blue light shines from the bank of monitors. This patient will make it. I saved her life. I lean back in my chair; my hand runs through my dark hair and then scrubs down my face. It’s only three hours into my shift and I’m tired as fuck. My only entertainment is in watching everyone run around, grabbing IV lines, and the medications that I’ve ordered. It’s a symphony of chaos, but it’s a perfect semblance of order. I need that control, that elegant design… I need it to breathe.
“Dr. Larkin, we’ve got a GSW en-route, but Dr. Miles and the trauma team have it covered. Lucy is rooming a lac as we speak and there’s a toddler with a fever still in triage.” The nurse smirks at me. “I know how much you love it when people use the ER as a clinic.”
Laceration or sick kid? These are my choices; I internally cringe. Shit, Miles gets all the good patients. Gunshot wounds are much more interesting. You don’t go into medicine thinking you’d ever care who you were helping, but after a while it wears on you. I never thought I would—after just two years—start losing empathy for some of the patient demographic. Maybe it has something to do with my fucked up childhood.
I’d been born to a single mother. My father was a druggie loser who never made it a week without being in jail. I got my first job slinging newspapers at age twelve, and I haven’t stopped working since. For as long as I can remember, I was either working a job or studying. After my mom died my first year in college, I was on my own. I decided right then to be a doctor, to help fix people… help make the world a better place. I like that medicine is strict, regimented. I like the art of anatomy and the beauty in healing. My childhood was shit, and I wanted more for myself… for my future.
I inhale deeply. “What room is the laceration in?”
The nurse smiles like she thinks she knows me, like she wants me. “Room five, sir.” I like that… “Sir.” Too bad I don’t fuck co-workers; I could use her to release some tension. That shit goes down around here way too much. I see how these nurses look at me. Most of the time they hate me because I’m a hard ass, I expect one hundred percent all the time . But sometimes, that desire in their eyes, I feel it and have to shake it off. There isn’t time for screwing around. There are lives to save, people to fix. I don’t need the added complication of an office romance.
“Thanks…” I eye her name badge as I stand from my chair. “Jennifer.” I give her a stiff nod, dismissing her. Her smile falls as she walks away and I feel like a dick. I can’t afford to care, though. This is who I am. I don’t attach well, I feel like what’s the fucking point. My life is set, planned… I don’t crave the nuances of the world.
Being raised by a single parent taught me that. “You work hard for what you want, or you’ll end up like me.” My mother’s words were always there, driving me. The scholarships, the hard and long nights studying, it got me where I am today. It isn’t my thing to sleep around. Occasionally, I’d buried myself in a girl or two in my frat days. I’d find the intermittent fuck buddy to pour my extra energy into during my residency, but here at work, I’m a professional. No piece of ass would ruin everything I’ve worked for.
I grab the chart of the laceration patient from beside the door. Flipping through, I note it’s a twenty-three-year-old female. Large lac on her upper right thigh. Nice. At least I don’t need to call plastics for this one. I rap my knuckles three times on the door before entering.
Still looking at the chart as I enter the room, I announce myself. “Ms. Evans, I’m Dr. Larkin. I see…” I look up and my words hang in the air. Holy shit. This
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