“Hard reset or soft?” Chance had asked with a tender voice. She brushed the hair away from my cheek and her brow furrowed as she looked, again, at the blackening contusions all along the left side of my face. “Hard this time, right?”
I did that head tilt that I always do when I don’t have the right words. I knew from the way she pursed her lips that seeing me beat up was bothering her but I couldn’t explain that it didn’t bother me. Saying, “Don’t worry, I’m used to it,” seems to make people feel worse somehow. Or they stop caring entirely and I didn’t want that either. Chance was a sweet older woman who always put me under with a gentle touch. Instead of explaining I said, “Soft, please.”
“Why would you want to remember this one, honey?” she asked.
“I don’t really, but it took me three months to learn how to turn at the right time so he did less damage. I should hold on to that.” Which was true enough.
She didn’t argue. I leaned back into the chair while she slipped on a pair of synthetic rubber gloves, stifling a smile at the way they snapped around her wrists, signifying her transition into Medical Professional Chance IF1214. So serious, and of course I giggle. She makes a tiny frown but doesn’t waver as she slides a needle into the back of my right hand, piercing a vein. The drip bag is already hanging and while I know it’s a mix of serotonin reuptake inhibitors, glutamate blockers, and something to equalize my adrenocorticoids, I have never once asked for brand names. If I knew, I would research them, and my innate curiosity is dampened by the fear that being too aware of the chemical processes involved would stop the treatment from working.
Call me superstitious.
Thoughts? I’m about 800 words in on this one, and this bit isn’t the beginning but it’s just after the introduction.