Page 11 of Snow Blind

Chapter 4- Mischance

Lashonda Temple hadgraduated medical school at the top of her class. She could easily spot and diagnose patients, sometimes without even touching them; however, touching them was the problem. Dr. Temple, didn't like the part of being a doctor where she touched live people. A cadaver she could deal with, but a person on the table who talked back, asked questions, and often incorrectly self-diagnosed themselves ranked high on her list of "icks". The icks included dicks who thought they knew it all, or in instances when she needed to examine a penis, the dick on the table became an erect prick. In her father's business, the icks came in the form of tricks who got their kicks slinging bricks in the dark back room doing dirty deeds. The icks grew into quick fixes of men with bullet holes or women with cuts and contusions requiring patching up with slick sticks, and new bodies often ended on her table with the aid of a click of the mouse which sent a fax which sent Passion Fruit to work. She wrote prescriptions for the broken souls, placing bandages where she could or offering counsel when they would listen. Few returned to offer friendship, say thank you, or even share a cup of coffee. Patients made her sick. The more she thought about it, the more she became plagued with the "icks", making her walk away from it all. All this also meant she'd earned no friends and lived a lonely existence taking care of the infrequent Technician or injured animals.

An opportunity to work with the woman called Cranberry intrigued her, almost bringing a feeling of excitement to cover over the icky. Today, she’d actually laughed; she didn't remember the last time that had happened. A feeling of almost optimism coursed through her as she walked to the room where the man rested. Yesterday, the mode of operation was to save his life. Today, the assessment would begin to unravel the clues of his life to determine if what she had saved was worthy of her time or a costly mistake.

Helen followed her into the room. The man's eyes were closed. Lashonda pulled the covers up from his feet, noticing the soles. Her lips turned down, and she re-covered his feet, moving up his body, gently attempting to the turn the man to his side. His mass was immovable, prompting her to grip the sheeting on the gurney and pulling him towards her.

"Cranberry," she said, using the codename in the man's presence, "come and hold him steady while I examine his back."

Helen moved quickly, holding the edges of the sheeting. She kept her eyes on the mentor as Passion Fruit looked at the man's back. Bryan. He’d told Passion Fruit his name was Bryan.

She asked her mentor, "What are you looking for on Mr. Bryan?"

"This," Passion Fruit said, pointing to the patch of skin. The dark, grayish brown patch of skin looked like a tattoo of the start of a reticulated python coming through the skin on his body. "Along with the thick soles of his feet and this reticulated hyperpigmentation, he has a genetic disorder called NFJS, or Naegeli-Franceschetti-Jadassohn syndrome, an ectodermal disorder, which has resulted in the loss of his fingerprints. You can slowly lower him to his back."

Helen again did as she was told. "Man, I was hoping when he woke up, he'd have a cool story or maybe he was a spy or some shit. I would have possibly settled for him having asshole brothers who threw something hot which he caught, and it burned his fingers."

Cranberry stood beside the gurney looking down at the face. He may have been handsome if his face hadn't been peeled back like an orange rind then stapled to the front of his head. A once aristocratic nose, now reduced to scarred up mangled flesh, would never look the same. The idea of having no fingerprints could mean a life of starting over, anew, away from whatever demons had brought him to this end.

"She is right," Bryan said, startling Helen.

His eyes opened to reveal green irises looking back at her. Helen moved closer to the bed; she touched his hand, placing it within her own. A soft smile formed at the corners of her lips.

"This must be scary for you," she told him.

"Understatement," he said, swallowing hard. "I want to sit up, but I hurt all over. I was shot?"

"Yes," Passion Fruit said. "We covered that already. There is a bullet hole in your shoulder. You fell over a cliff, tore off half your face. You also broke your leg and have internal injuries. The real question is who wants you dead?"

Helen didn't like the in-your-face approach to Bryan. Such tactics would make the man clam up and tell them nothing. She wasn't authorized to play good cop, bad cop, but Passion Fruit had a bit too much passion for her liking. Helen took a chance.

"An even better question is who would be wondering if you're still alive, Bryan? If those people are looking for you to take you out, and there is no physical body to be found, the next steps will be to connect with those in your primary circle," she said. "I would hate for your girlfriend, Mom, or siblings to be in danger because of some shady shit you're into. Sir, are you into some shady shit?"

"Why, are you worried that it will come to your door?" he asked, feeling suddenly unsafe with these two. The one who seemed to have the medical knowledge was overtly bitter and bitchy. The other one, who held his hand while looking him in the eye asking poignant, thought-provoking questions, he found to be unsettling, which also felt... scary.

Helen smiled at him. "Anything that comes to this door will rue crossing the threshold," she replied. "You get some rest. There is a long journey ahead of you in this recovery. Healing is the priority, or at least staying alive, if that's what you want. If you don't want that, let me know."

His eyes grew wide. "I hit my head when I broke my face. I'm not sure I understand what you're saying," Bryan answered.

"You understand me just fine, Mr. Bryan. I've learned that surviving may not always be the best course of action. Death can sometimes be a reprieve from the pain of living, having to continue, having to heal, or forgiving. If we don't learn to forgive, the anger eats us, makes us bitter," she told him. "Your choice. Live and fight another day or say the word and sleep in peace for an eternity."

"You're scary," he whispered, the pain coming at him at a ferocious pace. "Pain. Pain."

"Greet it, allow it to feed your recovery," Passion Fruit told him. "I will give you antibiotics, but no pain meds. This will be difficult, but you're either going to embrace the man you were or walk tall as the man you need to become."

"Bitch," he said under his breath.

Helen was taken aback by the sudden change in his tone. She was also amazed at the cheek of the man who lay flat on his back at Passion Fruit's mercy. Perhaps this is why she chose not to coddle him. Helen expected anger from Passion Fruit at the words the man used, but there was none. Passion Fruit spoke to him in a calm tone.

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