The Anti-Feminist Diary

Mending The Broken Parts

It's been months, years maybe, I don't know how long I've been living life like everything was fine. And only now did I realize that nothing was. More days I try to tell myself that I've got bills to pay, I have errands to run, places to be, things that are more important to do than to waste my time thinking about you, but on other days I do just that. Spend hours upon hours, wondering if you were, are, or will be thinking about me too. Wondering what if someday you'll walk through these doors, begging for me, needing, pleading on your knees as if life depends on it. But these scenarios I've played in my mind a thousand times would've never prepared me for the scene before my eyes.

"I don't suppose you can treat one more patient?" He looked at me, standing about a meter away from where I stood, with his right hand clutching onto his left shoulder. I could only look at him, I suppose my tiredness from today's duty has driven me to the point of madness, before twisting the key to the opposite direction from the first turn. Exhaustion is allowing me to not even think twice or put up a fight.

"Come in, quickly." I said while stepping in and to the side so he could go inside the clinic. "What happened?"

"I was at a rally and things got too heated. Some guy pulled a gun from a police officer and started shooting at us."

"O my gosh." I looked back at him but not stopping myself from guiding him to my office. "Did anyone else get hurt?"

"Yeah but no major injuries. As far as I know, I'm the worst case." He managed to chuckle.

"What? Then where are the others?" I got confused.

"Probably at other hospitals and clinics."

"Sit down." I tapped on the sterilized paper-lined bed and got my materials out. "Take your shirt off."

"I-"

"O my god you've lost a lot of blood." Now that his black blazer and dark shirt was gone, I could see better the worsening injury.

"I-"

"Don't talk, let me treat you first." I looked him dead in the eyes and he didn't say another word. I was done cleaning his wound and was in the middle of stitching him up when I decided to break the silence.

"How did you even get here?" I asked, not having enough courage to look him in the eye again.

"I drove myself." He said stoically.

"You what?!" I yanked on the needle a little to hard by accident.

"Ow!"

"Shit. Sorry." I went back to suturing. "You could've gotten worse, why didn't you go with the medic?"

"I knew you were here and I didn't wanna wait 'till they get there."

Silence.

"Thanks." I said.

"For what?" He chuckled. "You're the doctor treating my wound."

"For not taking the bullet out." I said and he already knew why.

"Ah, so you could see me at my most vulnerable state and you could be the one to mend my broken parts." He grinned at me.

"No. For making my job easier. You would've lost more blood if you did." I lied.

I snipped the last suture and set my needle driver on the tray and covered the wound with gauze and tape before sitting back down on my chair. The exhaustion of the day finally weighing on my shoulders. I crossed my arms and leaned back, tilting my head up with my eyes shut. I sighed. Then I a pair of oxfords hit the tiled floor, two hands held both sides of my face and, a set of two plump lips ambush mine. The attack was explicit and to the point, confident, but I couldn't stop myself from feeling as if it was premeditated. It caught me off guard but I was quick to retaliate after feeling deceived by the indulgence, by pressing my thumb from the hand that had snaked its way up to his shoulder near the area of just where the gauze was covering the laceration.