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  • Writer's pictureEva Nel Brettrager

"They don't care about you."

The nurse had come in precisely at seven o clock. Shift change. Slapped a blood pressure cuff on my arm. Stuck a blood ox reader on my finger. Jammed a thermometer in my mouth. Waited a few seconds. Recorded all the information that she needed.

“Do you prefer the right or the left arm?” she asked. Injectable meds. That meant the pain would subside for a little while.

“It really doesn’t matter,” I said, “The veins on both arms are good.”

With that, she strapped my left arm and started administering the juice. I almost immediately regretted not picking an arm. The left had been injured more recently. It hurt more.

“They don’t care about you.”

I looked to the mirror over the sink at the foot of my bed. There I was. Standing right next to the nurse. Guiding her hands as she slowly injected me. The pain medication was hitting my system and I could feel all the blood power rushing through my neck.

I was drenched in blood. It was dripping on the nurses clothes.

“They don’t care about you,” I said to myself, “but I care about you.” I guided her hand to a few more needles worth of pain medication. I blacked out from all the exertion as I saw myself grab another handful.

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