Page 4 of Make Me Pretty
She pulls back to meet my eyes, one brown eyebrow arched. Unimpressed.
“Tough crowd,” I grumble.
“I want you to know, whatever you say will stay between us—and the doctor, of course—if you wish. But I can’t treat you to the best of my ability if I don’t know what happened.”
I grit my teeth. “I don’t want Child Protective Services involved.”
“You know they’ve already been called. I’m sorry, but legally…”
“Yeah.” I breathe out heavily. “I know.”
“I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
“Just another day in the life, doc.”
Warm breath, smelling faintly of coffee, blows across my frigid skin. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Nurses are better than doctors if you ask me.” I flip her a smile, but my eyes remain closed.
“Well, thank you. May I pull up your gown to examine your ribs?”
I lift my arms slightly, nearly throwing up at the concentrated wave of pain. “It appears your ribs are bruised, possibly cracked, but we’ll do some x-rays to be sure. I’m also concerned about these bruises on your legs. Is there any localized pain?”
No mention of my scars… That’s a first.
“It all hurts, but no. Just the ribs. And my eye. That fucking stings.” I brush my fingers over the weeping wound, probably smearing blood around.
“Okay. I’ll go put in an order to get these tests done. And Abel…”
I’d lift a brow if I could, but I can’t, so I settle on peering through matted lashes.
“Do you want a sexual assault exam?—”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
She sighs softly. “There’s evidence, and?—”
“I said no. I wasn’t assaulted. I fell or whatever, so can we please just get this done?” I glance around the sterile room. All shades of white and beige. I picture the glossy white floor stained with blood. It drips from the table. A small puddle that grows with each passing second.
“I want to get out of here. Hospitals creep me out.”
Our eyes lock, silver and golden green clashing. “All right.”
Death feels closer than it ever has as the doctor checks me over, agreeing that my ribs are, in fact, bruised, but not cracked.Yay me.I also have a minor concussion and a sprained wrist, amongst the many, many bruises. What I don’t speak a word ofis the burning, aching fire in my ass. Been here before, know exactly how to deal with it. And I’m sure as fuck not having it put in a medical record.
Elise stays by my side through it all. With every test they run. While I wear a lead vest as they x-ray my chest and my wrist. Hovering by the doctor as he stitches my eyebrow closed.
It’s… surprisingly comforting while simultaneously unbearable.
“There is always the possibility of scarring, but I’m fairly confident in my abilities. I’d say, after this heals, your eyebrow won’t look any different than before. But sometimes hair, especially in this particular area, won’t grow back the same, so that might be the only distinction.”
“That’s fine. I’m not one to care about scars.” The doctor’s laser-focused eyes dart to the visible scars on my forearms for the briefest moment.
Silence stretches out, his hands still on my face, left side numbed completely as a needle weaves in and out of my skin. I wish I could see it, but when I asked Elise for a mirror, she just stared at me.
Whatever. I guess my freak was showing a little too much.
After an eternity and a half, the doctor leaves the room. Elise leans over, examining the bandage. Then, she silently helps me put all my jewelry back in my face. As she screws on the ball to the last one, she says, “Your caseworker is here, and he needs to speak with you. Is that okay, or do you need to be alone for a little while longer?” She pulls back, slightly hovering.
