Who’s left? From the back of the nurse’s station, a figure stood up. She was adjusting her scrubs, her movements precise and economic. Sarah Mitchell wasn’t the type of nurse who stood out. She was 34 with dark hair, usually pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that seemed to look right through you. She rarely socialized in the breakroom.
She never talked about her weekend. She just did the work. I’ll take him, Sarah said, her voice raspy. Sarah, honey, are you sure? Brenda asked, looking concerned. Colonel Graves is particular. He has a file as thick as a phone book. He’s filed complaints against half the staff. He only respects authority, and even then, barely. I can handle authority, Sarah said.
She picked up the fresh dressing kit and the tray of antibiotics. Does he need his morphine? He refuses to take it. Brenda sighed. says it dulls his senses. He’s sitting in there with level eight pain just gritting his teeth. Sarah nodded. I’ll see what I can do. As Sarah walked down the corridor, the lenolium squeaking softly under her sneakers, she checked the patient file one last time.
Silus Graves, USMC Rhett, Operation Phantom Fury, Operation Enduring Freedom, Silver Star, Two Purple Hearts. She stopped at the door of room 402. She didn’t knock. In her experience, men like graves didn’t appreciate the courtesy of a knock. They appreciated presence. She pushed the door open. The room was dim. The blinds were drawn tight against the gray afternoon.
The smell of antiseptic and old sweat hung heavy in the air. Sitting on the edge of the bed, not lying down, was silus graves. He was shirtless, revealing a torso that looked like a road map of violence. Burned scars, bullet grazes, and the deep puckered crater on his right thigh where the sepsis was setting in.
He looked up his eyes like two chips of flint. “Who are you?” he growled. “It wasn’t a question, it was a challenge. I’m Sarah. I’m your nurse for the night shift.” “Sarah,” he mocked, spitting the name out like a curse. “I don’t need a Sarah. I need a doctor. Or better yet, I need a coreman who knows how to wrap a leg without cutting off the damn circulation.
Get out. Sarah didn’t move. She walked to the counter and set the tray down. The doctor will be here in 2 hours for rounds. Until then, you have me. And your leg needs to be flushed, Colonel. Don’t you use that rank with me. Graves snapped. You didn’t earn the right to say it. You’re just another civilian paycheck player.
You think because you wear scrubs, you know about pain. You know nothing. He leaned forward, the heart monitor spiking as his blood pressure rose. I have been fighting this infection for 10 years. I have had better medical care in a muddy hole in Helmond Province from a 19-year-old kid named Private Miller using a dirty rag than I have had in this entire multi-million dollar hotel you call a hospital. So, do me a favor, Sarah.
Get someone else. Get me a man. Get me someone strong enough to do what needs to be done. It was sexist. It was cruel. It was the lashing out of a man who felt his control slipping away. Most nurses would have walked out. Most would have reported him. “Sarah just turned around, picked up a pair of shears, and looked him dead in the eye.
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