Leo
Why do hospitals tell you to be here at a certain time, only for them to say you have to wait twenty minutes to be called in?
Who's responsible for making the appointments? They're probably double booking and should be fired, in my opinion.
Yeah, I'm bitter.
I've been here for over twenty-five minutes when I should be on my way to my next appointment.
Mom said that they'll treat me better here at Monaro Medical. Since my family basically owns the hospital, all my family gets treated here. Even though the government redirects the military to general hospitals.
This room I'm in is bigger than it's supposed to be. I'm sitting on the bed or bench or whatever the fuck these things are called. The examination table thing that doctors make you sit on like a little child while they touch and prod your body. There's a rack with medical supplies on my right and a computer screen on the other side.
It looks like a fancy prison cell, if you ask me. All the walls are white and there're no photos to give it some life. Not even posters for disease awareness. Or of cute babies or some shit. But who am I to talk? I'm not an interior designer.
If I have to sit here another minute, I'll lose my shit. My shoulder blade has some stitches that need replacing from a gunshot wound. I'm not getting into surgery, so why am I still here waiting? I would've replaced the stitches myself if I knew I had to wait this long.
Just as I'm standing up to leave this fucking room—to hell with the stitches, I'll remove them myself once I get home—the door opens.
A petite woman, early twenties, in blue scrubs enters. She has a clipboard in her hand that she's looking at.
"Hello, I'm—"
"Finally!" I exhale. "Look, I have an important meeting in ten minutes, so can you please hurry?"
She finally looks up from the papers and I can tell she's trying really hard to keep up her smile.
I know I sounded like a douchebag, and I should know better than treating her like this. Doctors and nurses are the ones who brought me back to life when too many bullets entered my body. Or when an explosion so huge left me unconscious for a couple of days and they nurtured me back to health.
It's probably that stupid meeting I have after this. The sergeant could tell me I have to go back to war. Even though I'm injured. It won't be the first time it happens. So I have the right to be stressed, in my opinion.
"Of course. I'll work as fast as possible." She puts the clipboard on the table to my right and comes to stand next to me at the end of this bench. I already took off my army jacket the minute I entered the room, thinking someone would walk in right after me and replace the stitches in a matter of minutes.
Her eyes do a quick sweep across my bare chest. She probably hasn't seen someone with this many scars. Fellow soldiers go to Miami General Hospital. I must be the only soldier to come to this fancy private hospital.
Up close, I can tell she's young. She probably finished college this year or something. She has a round face, but her cheekbones are still sharp. Her hair is brown but lighter near the ends and long bangs frame her face. And her lips... damn. I guess it's true when they say that those lips were only made for kissing. And sucking—stop.
What is wrong with me?
I focus my eyes on the ugly room to stop my dick from hardening.
She shifts her face to look at the little plastic cup with a few pills in it next to my thigh.
"You should've taken those earlier. Otherwise, they won't take effect immediately."
I shake my head. "I don't like taking pain pills."
"If you have a history with abusing pills, I can—"
"No." I shake my head again and meet her eyes. They're dark, the opposite color of mine. "I'm used to not taking any pain medication. So I don't want to start now." She purses her lips and I know she wants to press further, but she doesn't. I'm not taking pills for a few stitches. I've had worse injuries and didn't take any pain medication then so I won't now for something so inconsiderate. Where were these pills when I actually got shot with a M4 Carbine.
"Oh, come on." David groans, slapping me on the back. "At least stay for a few hours."
I shake my head, undoing the clasp of my helmet under my chin before removing it all together. Those bulletproof helmets are annoying as fuck. The clasp always digs into my chin as they have to be put on tightly to make sure they stay secure. Sure, they prevent a bullet from searing my brains, but that doesn't mean I can't complain about how uncomfortable they are. Not to mention heavy.
"I was there last night." I answer. "I'm gonna call my parents." My lips stretch at the thought of them. I haven't heard their voices in a week and I can finally call them back tonight. In exactly three hours and twenty-two minutes.
No, I'm not counting down or anything ...
"Pussy." David coughs in his palm.
I punch his shoulder and he staggers a step. A loud buzzing sound pierces my ears as the force of the land mine we didn't notice explodes.
No.
We checked this area just yesterday.
This can't be happening.
The sound of gunshots echo in the desert and I duck, quickly putting my helmet back on. Grabbing my pistol, I aim it at the sound, but my vision is obstructed by dirt.
Where the hell are these people shooting us from?
My body goes into survival mode, adrenaline taking over. I crawl towards David. Rolling him on his back, the front of his shirt is ripped and blood is oozing from ... his entire chest.
"David!" I slap his cheek, trying to make him open his eyes. He groans again and mumbles something incoherent. "Just stay still."
I remove my jacket and use it to apply pressure on his chest where the most blood is leaking.
A cold and warm feeling at the same time develops in my shoulder as a bullet punctures my body.
"Fuck!" I hiss, my skin stinging. I look around, trying to see where they're hiding but all I see is fucking dirt.
Coughing, I then drag David behind a small dune. It's the best I can do when we're in the open and I don't fucking know who's attacking us.
I check for a pulse. It's weak but it's still there. I don't have my fucking radio with me. So I can't call for help. But they must've heard the sound of the mine and guns.
My vision goes blurry as I lose more blood by the second.
"Just stay awake." I'm not sure who I'm saying this to. David or me. "Just breathe."
In the distance, in the direction of where we set camp a few days back, I vaguely notice multiple figures coming closer. I fight with my body to keep upright, for my vision to stay clear.
Using the last ounce of strength, I apply more pressure to David's wounds as the figures are now twenty feet from us.
Finally giving up, I let my fellow brothers and sisters take care of the threat and us and close my eyes.
The sound of gloves snapping pull me out of my dark flashback. I clear my throat and focus on the feel of her hand resting on my shoulder. Not this dark and heavy feeling that's trying to consume me at the memory of David's chest being marred as a result of stepping on a landmine. All because I jokingly fucking pushed him.
She snips the old stitches to put in new ones. "Does it hurt?" She asks softly, snipping at the old stitches before she puts new ones.
"No." This is nothing compared to other types of hurt I've experienced. I've come to learn that pain is mostly mental. If you block it in your brain, you'll not feel it as much. The hurt of losing a fellow soldier, who's like a brother to you, in an explosion is the most painful thing I've experienced, physically and emotionally. But I don't feel the need to tell my nurse all that.
After five minutes of her working on my shoulder's bullet wound, she removes her gloves and comes to stand in front of me. I stand up too. With me at my full height, the top of her head reaches the middle of my chest and she has to strain her neck to look up at me. I smile down at her while buttoning my camo jacket. Her cheeks look rosier than when she first entered.
"You'll have to come back in a week to get those new stitches removed." She talks more about how to take care of the wound and what to do with showers and some aftercare stuff. I don't tell her that this isn't the first bullet wound I've had, and that I had to deal with a far less sterile environment while my hands were dirty and the wound wouldn't stop gushing blood. So I'll manage. But she sounds excited to tell me everything she knows about the wound, that I don't have the heart to stop her.
"Thank you." I nod to her and make my way out of this room. Right before I turn left, I sneak a last look in the room. She has her hand on her forehead like she's about to faint.
She's cute.
•••
"At ease."
I ease from my salute position and take a seat in front of sergeant Miller. This is not a meeting I've been looking forward to. The exact opposite, actually.
"How's it going?" He asks me sincerely. Miller has been my sergeant since I enrolled in the army almost 7 years ago.
When I was eighteen, I went into the army. I knew I didn't want to go to college, even when my brother Luca and my other cousins talked about how the college experience is amazing and that I should experience it as well. I wanted to do something meaningful, so here I am.
Though I've become kind of tired now. Physically, emotionally, and mentally. Which is why I hope this is just a routine meeting, checking up on how I'm doing and not to tell me I'm getting deployed when I just got home. Most of the time, I'm eager to go back, even if I'm injured. But the last couple of years have taken a toll on me.
"It's going." I answer truthfully. Miller nods and looks down at the paper on his desk.
"You finally went to the therapist."
I nod.
He nods back and looks back at the papers.
Every time I come back home, they insist I talk to a therapist for PTSD. I always refused. I didn't see the point of talking about my feelings and shit, coming up with tactics to deal with PTSD when I knew I'll go back in a matter of weeks. But since two months ago I've been going to a therapist a few times a week.
She's a great woman, late fifties. She's specialized in PTSD and has dealt with a lot of soldiers, navy and marines. So she knows what she's doing. She's been helping me with my occasional nightmares and I'm grateful for her, especially as she didn't put me on medication and is actually giving me methods that I can do to help me.
"Well, I'm glad you're talking to her. I know she's good." He clasps his hands and leans forward on the table.
Shit.
This is where he tells me I have to go back. I've only been home for a week because I got injured.
"Your stitches will be out in a week. We'll have another meeting right after then." I have to grind on my molars to prevent me from breathing a sigh of relief. After saluting him again, I get the fuck out of this building and make my way back home.
My childhood home is in a gated neighborhood. It's more of a mansion, but it's homey, and this will always be my safe space.
When I enter the living room and see no one there, I walk to my mom's office. After two knocks and a faint 'enter', I hug her tightly and tell her I'm staying here for a week at least.
I always give my family hugs when I can. Because I'll never know if this will be the last hug I'll give them. Ever.
It's hard to stay in a positive mood all the time and not think about all the depressing stuff I've seen and experienced, but they make it easy. They're always smiling and doing everything they can to ensure I'm happy.
Even before I enrolled in the army, my family always spoiled me. But it's more now. Me being the youngest grandchild also helps. My Nonna always feeds me three days' worth of food every time she sees me.
I don't know if it's an Italian thing or just a grandma thing. Probably both.
Luca FaceTimes me and convinces me to go to Lusso—a nightclub my older cousin, Antonio owns—before it opens to 'celebrate.' I want to decline but Isabella, his girlfriend, pouts and gives me puppy eyes, so I cave.
All of my cousins are sitting in the middle of the dance floor. Three couches are making an open rectangle and a table full of food and drinks is in the middle. Usually, it's rare that all of us are together at the same time unless there's a special occasion. I guess Luca called them and told them to come here to be with me.
Emotions well inside of me and I feel like I'm ready to break down and cry.
After hugging them all and tipping back a shot, I take a seat and Izzy sits next to me and rests her head on my shoulder. She treats me like her little brother. I think she always wanted to be a big sister to someone and since I'm younger than her; it works.
After a couple hours and a couple dozen shots, the three couples—Izzy and Luca, Antonio and Sara and Mateo and Carina—start being too touchy feely and making out. I take that as my cue to leave. Nicole is my oldest cousin and the only one beside me that's still single.
If Nicole was here, we'd share a knowing look. This is a recurring thing everytime we're all together. I'm kind of surprised that Mateo and his girlfriend, who's sitting on his lap, are making out. He's the most private out of us when it comes to sex, and he usually goes home before it gets to this point. Maybe he learned some things from Luca and Izzy.
Those two have no shame. They'll have sex wherever they can and they don't care that we know what they're about to do. I've lost count of the times they've snuck out in the middle of a gathering to have a quickie, not being shy about it.
They said that both of their love languages are touching, which is why they're always up in each other's personal space.
I tell them goodbye and enter the elevator.
"We need to find a date." I mumble to myself as if Nicole is next to me to agree with me. "This seventh wheel shit is getting old."
My mind immediately goes to a petite woman in blue scrubs and plum lips.
Fuck.
• ••• •
A/N:
First chapter wohooo!!
What do you think already?
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