Page 10 of Unapologetic Obsession
Somehow, he knew I was faking the complacency. With an eye roll, he pulled out a phone from his back pocket. The sounds of swiping and tapping were faint as he navigated through the device.
“My license,” was all he said as he thrust the phone in my face.
It was a picture of a document stating he was licensed to practice medicine in New York. There was a click as he scrolled to the next photo.
“My lab.”
He showed me pictures of a lab with white and beige colors and fellow research assistants looking professional and serious. He continued showing me photos of his respectable life.
“I’m not lying about who I am. You’re safe with me,” he said reassuringly.
Something on my face must’ve clued him in that I was unconvinced. With a curse, he withdrew the phone. The fresh tapping of his fingers was constant with a rhythmic beat as he pulled up browsers on the screen for various magazine sites.
It turned out that our resident doctor was a celebrity in New York. His hands moved quickly, scrolling through the tabs of several articles he had published in the scientific field. The journals crediting him as the author seemed legitimate, evento my untrained eyes. A magazine calledForbesfeatured him in a segment, 30 Under 30. According to the article, his list of achievements was never-ending: graduating from college at seventeen, becoming one of the youngest doctors, only to pivot to research.
The article said he was about to turn twenty-six. How the hell did he accomplish so much already?
He had also been featured in magazines that seemed less reputable, something called tabloids, which mostly speculated on his latest conquests. I realized why he showed me the articles. Unlike the journals, these articles were coupled with candid photos of him around New York. Many of them featured him with women at various functions and fundraisers. They were all incredibly beautiful, like Amelie, further establishing that he was untouchable to someone like me.
Nevertheless, he was telling the truth. Considering his public stature, auctioning humans would be impossible.
What was wrong with me? The doctor had been kind to me, probably the first to do so. Why did I jump to the worst possible conclusion?
I realized he was waiting for the same explanation.
Lifting my face and looking him in the eye was excruciatingly painful. “I’ve had a little trouble with trust,” I said apologetically. “Since my rebirth behind a dumpster.”
My amnesia humor might have been a hit had he not been tense. He eventually relented. “That’s to be expected.”
He went back to being silent, though I was still beyond horrified. My shame doubled when I realized that, of all things, I was conscious about what he thought of my body. He was probably used to pretty women with perfect skin like Amelie, whereas my body was marred. As if all the minor injuries weren’t enough, large, ugly scars stretched from my midsection to my hips. There were many of them, and vulgar enough toterrify grown humans. I once lifted my hospital gown to relieve myself, and another woman doing the same caught sight of my scars. She ran like her ass was on fire. People on the streets had lived through the worst. You knew something was terrifying when it frightened even them. At least they looked old, so those couldn’t have been the reason why I lost my memories.
He was thorough, leaving no stone unturned until the section he worked on was squeaky clean. First, he used a soapy sponge, then a wet one to rinse off the soap, and finally, a towel to dry. I counted the seconds he spent polishing every part to dissuade the awkwardness and distract myself.
One hundred and twenty seconds.
Whether it was calculated or an innate timer, our resident doctor had an obsessive-compulsive disorder.
The fact that he was a human being with flaws made me feel better. He was more relatable this way. I stopped arguing with him and recalled a saying fit for the moment.
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
The doctor had done nothing other than feed me and provide me with medical attention. Wasn’t that what I had hoped for—food and medicine? There was no need to overreact if this was a part of his medical care.
The pep talk lasted until he started on my chest. The thin white sheet barely covered my breasts, especially once he bypassed it to clean my belly and the underside of my boobs. I crossed my arms across my chest with a lame attempt at modesty. Though my nipples were obstructed from his view, his methodical effort left little to the imagination.
The sheet was drenched by the time he finished. I pulled it over my breasts, but the white linen was unforgiving. It was wet, see-through, and lewder than before. My pointy nipples stood out like little hills, and I internally groaned.
He was blissfully unaware, wiping off the excess water with a towel. His thumb grazed over my nipples every so often. They reacted ten times harder than before until it was damn near painful. I had no idea if he felt them erect under his thumb, and I sagged against the mattress when he deemed I was dry enough to stop.
He lifted me with one strong arm to work on my back before drifting south with a couple of sponges and washcloths in hand. I clamped my thighs shut when he scrubbed my grimy knees and calves, down to my feet. Just when I thought the nightmare was over, he coasted next to my hips and sank to his knees. The wet sponge scrubbed my thighs, which he pried apart whenever I tried closing them. When he reached my inner thighs, I stared at the ceiling as he did more of the same to my most intimate part. The evidence of my heated insides must show on my flushed skin.
To his credit, I had reacted blatantly to his bare chest while he seemed oblivious to my nakedness. Perhaps he was repulsed by it.
Why wouldn’t he be?
Without the gown as armor, my terrifying scars were on full display.
To my shock, the doctor nonchalantly continued with the circular motions, as if the ugly welts were the most natural thing on a person’s body. If he had a reaction to spare, he didn’t let it show. He had appeared more stunned when I made eye contact to speak to him for the first time than by my ungodly skin mutilations.
