Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24251 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24251 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
I rake a shaky hand through my black hair. When was the last time I ate? The last time I drank? My fingers tremble as I clutch the smooth porcelain of the sink, my muscles quivering with need for calories.
Note to self: Eat and drink something before I pass out. But then the intercom makes me jerk.
“Doctor Monroe,” the voice says nasally, “Dial 211. Doctor Monroe, dial 211.”
I sigh and close my eyes, but open them as quickly as I shut them. I don’t want to fall asleep standing up. Taking one last glance at my shaky hands and unsteady fingers, I curl my hand into a fist, my nails digging into my palms, and begin to walk on my wobbly legs.
I guess eating and drinking will just have to wait.
“Good morning, Ms. Hues,” I greet the woman on the stretcher in one of our private rooms in the emergency wing. “What’s going on with you today?”
The woman before me is clearly ill, but she struggles up to her elbows to look at me. Her parched lips open slightly, and her eyes rake up and down my body with fevered intensity. Oh no. The woman is sick, but evidently not sick enough.
Ms. Hues immediately begins batting her lashes. Then, the woman purrs, “I’m just not feeling that well, Doctor. Could you help me?”
Not in the way she wants.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes because this happens on a daily basis. As arrogant as it may sound, women often forget about their ailments when I enter the room to assess them, even if I’m wearing a mask that covers the majority of my face. It drives me nuts and makes my co-workers laugh so hard it’s not even funny.
It’s my height and muscular build, apparent even beneath the white lab coat. I also have black hair and blue eyes so intense that their color is visible even behind thick goggles. I should thank my lucky stars for my good looks, but it makes it much harder to do my job effectively when female patients get distracted.
“Ms. Hues,” I begin again. “It says in your chart that you’re experiencing some gastrointestinal issues. Violent diarrhea, projectile vomiting, that kind of thing?”
I try to avoid looking at her chest as she leans forward and cackles, a quivering hand going to her unnaturally ashy cheek and wiping away some sweat. I arch an eyebrow as she continues to laugh off her symptoms, but take note of just how pale and clammy she looks. Based on a quick visual once over, it’s probably food poisoning.
“Doctor,” she says, licking her dry, cracked lips, “I’m more than okay. Seeing your face just magically healed me from whatever this is. I’m good now.”
I roll my eyes internally. But then I look closer. The slight vacancy in her eyes and her sudden blank expression worries me, and I instinctively grab the nearest trash can to hold in front of her face. She vomits like a hurricane, retching into the bin as I wait patiently. It’s a good thing I’m wearing gloves and a mask because without them, the chunks of undigested food would surely make me sick enough to throw up right alongside her.
“Okay, Ms. Hues,” I speak once her vomiting ceases. I’ve seen enough to know that at the very least, she’s severely dehydrated. “It looks like you have food poisoning. Why don’t I get you a few bags of fluid and some medication to help with the nausea and vomiting? I’m not going to admit you, but I think you should stay here for a bit to be observed.”
“Food poisoning?” Her pale face blanches, turning an even lighter shade of white if that’s possible. “How did I get that?”
Ah, I knew that question was coming, as it always does. It’s my least favorite question from patients. I have no idea how exactly she got food poisoning, but what I do know is that she definitely has it.
“Food, Ms. Hues,” I respond with a hint of annoyance in my tone. “You probably ate something bad. Something with harmful bacteria in it. Whatever that may be, it doesn’t seem to agree with your stomach.”
“It must have been that Brazilian restaurant from last night,” she mumbles. “I’m never going back there again.” I nod.
“Well, to be on the safe side, I’m going to go ahead and get some lab work done to make sure you don’t have any parasites or seriously harmful bacteria, like E. coli.”
She nods her head and as I move to exit the space, the smell of vomit starting to make my head spin. But as I pull back the exam curtain to make an escape, the busty blonde latches her hand onto my wrist, her long, acrylic fingernails digging into my skin. I fight back a wince as she squeezes my hand, the hungry look back in her eyes.