Chapter 1: Cold Hands

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- Constantly cold hands are a common symptom of anxiety -

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Really, honestly, and without a hint of untruth, Matthew couldn't remember the last time his hands felt warm.

He couldn't. He really couldn't. He tried, and tried, and the next day he tried some more, but he really, honestly, couldn't, and perhaps wouldn't, remember.

He did know one thing, though.

He knew it well.

Well, two things, actually.

The first one, you already know: That his hands were always cold.

Second thing: Matthew was, without a doubt, unabashedly, absolutely, positively, miserable.

He knew why, but he didn't know when or where it began. It was just with all the exams, and pressure, and after school tutoring, and having his parents call him stupid until he got that stupid 98 on that report card, and feeling alone, and being alone, and having no friends all the time, and, GOD. Oh, dear, God. Matthew's head span and swirled with all the things he had to do, all the things he should have done, every failure and shortcoming and every time he fell flat of everyone's expectations.

His parents had never hit him, never laid a finger on him, and Matthew felt guilty, and ashamed, and plain embarrassed to think in such a way. But seriously, seriously, SERIOUSLY. They harped him and chewed his heart out with curses and verbal punches when one terribly terrible day, he'd gotten his first grade under a 95.

It was a 94, a 94.98, and yes, Mr. Lucinda refused, absolutely refused, to round him up by just 0.02 of a point.

It's just a 94, they'd say.

You're doing so well in school, Matthew! his teachers told him.

Dammit! I wish my grades were like yours! his peers exclaimed.

I'd do anything to be you right now, his classmates said.

But no. No, no, no, NO.

Seriously, man? You're panicked over this one assignment. Come on, you're good enough!

No, Matthew wasn't good enough. Matthew would never, ever, ever, ever in a million, billion, trillion damn years be good enough. Because to his parents, he was never good enough.

They wouldn't, they couldn't, they shouldn't love him. Not until at least after he completed his medical residency.

You have to be a doctor, Matthew, and I'm not sorry. It's been decided for you, clear and cut. You're going to Med school, whether you like it or not. Trust me; you'll thank me later.

So as Matthew, with all the jargon and paranoia and disappointment in himself in his heart running circles around his sanity, shut off the blaring alarm at 4:30 in the morning, he couldn't help but feel miserable.

He didn't want to be here, seven years into medical school - on the accelerated program of course - loneliness at its peek, he himself flailing and unwilling and feeling as if he was failing. Matthew didn't want to be a doctor. He doesn't want to be a doctor. Not a doctor, GODDAMMIT.

Mom and Dad told him that he should be grateful, that he should be thankful, that they're paying, that they're doing whatever it takes to help his lazy ass succeed, that they care enough to control his life and his time and every fiber within his being.

Mom and Dad told him that he should do better, study harder, put in more hours. Be the son that they want, be the person that they want, be everything that they want. He owes the world, he owes his success, owes his everything to them.

Mom and Dad told him that he was just complaining, just whining, just being lazy and stupid and short-sighted, that being a doctor should be, being a doctor is, what he wants.

It's a first world problem, Matthew. There're people who'd kill for the opportunities you have. Don't just throw it away!

Well, you didn't have to yell it to him in his face, after the string of curse words you chucked at him!

Goddammit, goddammit, GOD FUCKING DAMMIT.

5:30 A.M., and Matthew was boarding the bus to his residency.

Hours were brutal and the work was miserable and everything was miserable and Matthew was miserable.

End, end already, let this nightmare end.

6:00 A.M. Matthew walked into the clinic, eyes and body and soul tired.

His hands felt quite cold, which sat right next from usual's door. Matthew always found that he couldn't warm them up anymore, no matter how hard he tried, and he couldn't get them to stop shaking, either.

That worried him. He didn't want his hands to shake, not during surgery and with a life on the line.

And sure, being a doctor was hard, and required a metric ton of school, and made him tired, and down, and weak, and sad, and all things under the sun that were bad and unhappy, but most of all, especially and absolutely and surely, the thing, the one thing Matthew despised about being a doctor the most, was that a life, a fucking life, rested in his hands.

He couldn't handle that. He just can't handle that! That someone's surgery, someone's medication, someone's health, someone's fucking, goddamn life, laid right there in Matthew's hands. He couldn't take it, he just can't take it!

Matthew felt like exploding, like a ticking time bomb, feeling as if he'd crash and burn any day, any hour, any minute, any second.

Any day.

Any hour.

Any second.

"Matthew."

Any day.

Any hour.

Any second.

"Matthew!"

Any day.

Any hour.

Any second.

"MATTHEW WILLIAMS."

Matthew screamed.

"Matthew! I need your help, the paperwork's killing me!"

Matthew felt his wrist grabbed, and his numb body was being tugged along, his arm like a limp noodle.

Another fellow medical resident came up to him, her expression just as frantic.

"Matthew! There's been an emergency in room 4587! I need your help."

"Matthew."

"Matthew!"

"Come here, come here, come here!"

Matthew's hands felt cold, and he couldn't get them to warm up.


1:02 P.M.

Matthew felt like having an aneurysm.

Hands sweaty, head unsteady, feet cold, knees like jelly.

Matthew sat in the break room.

He had twenty minutes for lunch, but he took one look at his sandwich and pushed it away when he realized that he wasn't hungry.

Matthew could feel his feet ache, his shoulders shake, his world quake as he tried his darned hardest to get himself under control.

He wanted to cry, bawl his eyes out, but he couldn't. This was a professional environment. Can't show emotion. Can't show feelings. Just be strong, and stop complaining.

Cold hands pushed away his lunch, for Matthew was too stressed to even eat.

His stomach did the somersaults that his cold hands couldn't do.

Head shaking.

Feet aching.

Hands cold.


"You mess everything up, Matthew!"

The attending physician Matthew was currently under, Dr. Erwin, didn't like him particularly much.

"Come on, you're lucky that we're just practicing and that this isn't an actual procedure."

Matthew breathed through his nose.

"Alright, let's do this again. This time, don't mess up. Don't be a disgrace."

Matthew felt put on the spot, felt and knew and could tell that everyone, everyone, was watching him.

"Be a man and complete it."

Matthew didn't, or rather couldn't, say anything about it. Anything, absolutely anything, that went even slightly against the grain of Mom and Dad would undoubtedly piss them off.

His instructor's comment kind of hit close to home, though.

He remembered what one of his fellow residents, jokingly and of course in a friendly manner, said to him: "Geez, Matthew, you're gayer than a pride parade float!"

Mr. - sorry, Dr. - Erwin must have for sure overheard.

But Matthew is gay, not that he'd told anyone except for his cousin Alfred, even and especially his parents.

His parents would probably disown him if they found out.

Matthew could feel his hands grow cold.


10:43 P.M.

"How's school?"

"Are test grades good?"

"What does your attending physician have to say about you?"

10 P.M., on every Tuesday, Matthew's parents would call him and bombard him with questions. Nothing about Matthew, though. It was all just about Dr. Williams.

"It," Matthew began, his exhausted voice floundering, "it's going good, Dad."

"Hey, you call me sir, now!"

"Yes sir." Matthew tried his best not to sigh.

"Don't forget about me!" cried the shrill voice of Mother. "I asked you about your test grades!"

"They're fine, too, ma'am." Matthew wanted to cry.

A simple "How are you?" would have made him feel as if he was worth something, anything, other than just his medical degree.

"I have to go now. I'm busy," Matthew spoke into the phone. He felt as if he was talking to a device rather than the two actual people on the other side.

"Don't just ignore us! You never call home."

But you're the ones who yell at me whenever I try to call you. You always do that. Whatever I do, whatever I say, is wrong.

"Sorry. I've just been busy."

"That's no excuse."

"MATTHEW!" Matthew heard the voice of Dr. Erwin.

"I have to go," Matthew said, his voice calm and flat and careful. "I love you."

"Goodbye."

The phone line went dead.

"An 'I love you, too' would've been nice," Matthew muttered to himself as he shuffled down the hall, back hunched and hopes crushed.


12:43 A.M.

Matthew was afraid that he'd just keel over and sleep, but he didn't even have time to think about what he'd do once he got home.

Everything was a blur, and that scared him. He didn't want for his mind to be in a haze when he saw patients, because they were people, not a rubber dummy where it didn't matter if you cracked a rib or two.

Seeing patients scared Matthew. He didn't like being in charge of a life. He didn't like being responsible for saving someone. So, as he rushed around with his fellow staff and students, as he rushed around the IV tubes and sanitizing alcohol hand gels and soaps and tubes and bandages, he prayed that oh, oh God, oh, please, Lord have mercy on him. He knew that everyone was going through the same thing; he knew that his residency story wasn't the worst out there.

But he didn't want to be here, he really didn't.

Day in, day out, just heaving and huffing and pushing, hoping to scratch the surface of tomorrow. Hoping that his parents would fucking love him, just for a second. Being overwhelmed every day, every single day, and Matthew didn't even want to be here. He wanted to be somewhere else, to have studied another course for college, to have done something else with his god-given life.

Someone having pneumonia complications. Quick! An idiot who blew his fingers off with fireworks just came in, and they need immediate attention! The sirens. The voices. The bloody chaos. It was too much, all just too much. Matthew could almost feel his soul float off from his body.

Please, let him do something else, be anywhere but here. Sure, his parents were paying for this, and Dr. Erwin didn't like Matthew that much but he was trying his best to teach him something, anything, and everyone here was so much smarter, so much brighter, so much better than Matthew, and he didn't deserve to be here, he really didn't, and he was only here because of a million privileges and more he'd received in life.

But Matthew couldn't do this, he really couldn't. This wasn't him. He couldn't imagine himself here ten years later, still rushing around and being battered about by brutal hours, all because two people insisted that he owed them. His parents said that Matthew owed them because they were the ones who pushed and decided and paid for medical school.

They told him to get his butt into gear, that he should be grateful that the program accepted his pathetic ass, cold, shaking hands and all.

Matthew was cold. His hands felt cold as he inserted a needle into someone's arm, of course with Dr. Erwin's watchful eyes drilling into Matthew's very soul.

Sweat coated Matthew's forehead from the sheer nerves that ran through him. His hair was wet, dripping, soaked in his own cold sweats.

Seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours, hours felt like days, and all the days, the days and months and years and time and life, Matthew had spent here, in this damn area of schooling and training, felt like centuries.

Beep, beep, beep went the heart rate machine.

The shouts for his name flooded his ears and droned on endlessly.

Tick-tock went the clock, its seconds tortuously slow.

Matthew washed his cold, cold hands, as he prepared for both the next patient and his hold on his thin string of sanity.


3:24 A.M.

Today was done with. He'd completed his shift, even though the edge of anxiety hadn't been taken off. As if the anxiety ever went away. Of course he'd have to wake up tomorrow; of course he'd have to do it all over again, over and over and over, again and again and again, his cycle of misery unwavering, unending, unbreakable.

Matthew wanted to break, though. He could feel himself cracking as he packed his bags.

With his eyes droopy, and his fingers ice-cold, and his very spirit fluttering only very weakly, very faintly, in his chest, Matthew prepared to leave, at least for the night. He'd squeeze in some sleep, hopefully, but as exhausted as he felt, he found himself sleeping less and less. He just couldn't bring himself to; he'd toss and turn, stretch and yearn far into the night.

Tears threatened to brim in his eyes, but Matthew kept them in.

He'd be home soon, and then he'd get a few hours of sleep if lucky, eat something if he felt up to it, and dream about art school. Oh, yeah, and some paperwork, too. A shitload of paperwork. A metric fucking ton.

Come on, just a little longer. Just a little bit longer. Just board the bus, and you'll be home in, like, an hour.

Just as Matthew packed the last few papers, someone called his name.

"MATTHEW!"

Matthew froze.

No.

No, no, no, no, no. Oh, hell, no. Fuck no. Fucking NO.

In an instant, Matthew turned, a manila file still in hand, to see his coworker, Arthur, rushing over to him. He looked frantic, and perhaps even more tired than Matthew, but for sure not as burnt out.

"Matthew, we need you, stat! We need an extra pair of hands to help with-"

Matthew didn't hear the rest.

Something within him just snapped.

He couldn't take it. He just couldn't take it anymore.

The stress, the high expectations, doing something that's so hard and he had so little passion for. Matthew was burned, burnt out of his very life being. He couldn't breathe normally anymore. He couldn't eat like a normal person anymore. He couldn't get his goddamn hands to warm up, and he certainly couldn't - or had he ever been - be happy anymore. Wait, no. Correction: He was never happy to begin with.

He'd had enough. He'd just had enough, goddammit!

Something inside Matthew just snapped, snapped like a twig that had been holding up a house. Something inside him burned and boiled and seethed, as if an ocean of gasoline had been lit on fire. As if someone had snatched away one too many cards from the card tower. As if the ticking time bomb that had been eating away at him for all twenty-six years of his life finally ran out, and hell yeah was Matthew ready to finally both explode and crumble.

Pop went the pressure cooker whose lid hadn't been released.

Snap went the little twig holding up the big house.

Boom went the pool of oil as the combustion overtook Matthew's very core.

"GODDAMMIT, I QUIT!"

Heads turned, all eyes on Matthew, the man himself having his heartbeat, having it pound so violently in his chest that he could hear it clear as day in his ears. Matthew had spent way too much damn time studying about all the veins in his body, but no one told him that they'd all be popping out from under his skin as anger, frustration, sadness, and burnout were having a field-day with Matthew's extremely unsteady - and currently extremely unhinged - emotions.

"Matthew, what are you talking about?"

Arthur looked confused, but Matthew was hellbent on putting the eraser to any remaining uncertainties about his mental state.

Matthew took the stethoscope that hung around his neck like a dead-weight and violently slammed it on the ground, stomping it harshly with his foot for good measure. He didn't care if he was acting childish and immature. His parents were the two most immature people he knew, two people who wanted the world while they had nothing to offer in return, two people who threw a fucking tantrum whenever they didn't get what they wanted, two people who verbally berated Matthew for just existing, two people as fake as the plastic of Matthew's glasses, two people who expected everything yet could do nothing.

"I QUIT! FUCK IT! IT'S FUCKING OVER, FUCKING MEDICAL RESIDENCY!" Matthew was screaming, but he couldn't stop. Years of anger and self-loathing and loneliness and sadness and misery and doing whatever other people wanted him to do was a second too long, a second too much, a moment too intense for him to bear.

"FUCKING, I JUST DO WHATEVER PEOPLE WANT ME TO DO! I DON'T GIVE A FUCK IF I'M BEING CHILDISH RIGHT NOW! BUT WHAT ABOUT ME? WHAT ABOUT MY PROBLEMS? WHAT ABOUT WHAT I WANT? MY PARENTS, MY FUCKING PARENTS, THEY'RE THE ONES WHO WANT ME TO BE HERE, NOT ME. THEY'RE THE ONES WHO SAID I'M STUPID BECAUSE I GOT A FUCKING 94 ON A REPORT CARD THAT ONE TIME. THEY'RE WHY, THEY'RE THE ONLY REASON WHY, I'M HERE.

THEY DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT MY HAPPINESS. I KNOW THEY DON'T. THEY JUST WANT TO BRAG THAT THEIR SON'S A DOCTOR, WELL, GUESS WHAT, I'M DONE. I'M FUCKING DONE WITH THAT SHIT!"

Arthur looked on at Matthew in complete and utter terror at his up until this point mild-mannered, perhaps slightly finicky coworker, but also within his eyes was sympathy.

"Listen, mate," Arthur said, arms in the air, voice calm and careful. For once it wasn't Matthew who had to be the level-headed one, the good one, the one who solved everything without even a thank-you in return.

Arthur continued. "I know it's rough. I know you've been pushed too far, stretched too thin, maybe I can help you negotiate some better hours, but mate, you're, like, what? At least seven, eight years into this. Don't let one blow-out be the end of your career, man."

"My career?" Oh, if Arthur had no damn idea the fucking sore nerve he'd just struck, he'd for sure know within the next thirty seconds. Matthew, personally, was insulted. "MY CAREER? YOU THINK THIS IS MY CAREER? HELL NO. IT'S MY PARENTS' CAREER. THEY COULDN'T BE FUCKING DOCTORS THEMSELVES, SO THEY HAD TO LIVE IT ALL THROUGH ME, GODDAMMIT. WELL GUESS, FUCKING, WHAT? I'M DONE. I'M FUCKING DONE. DR. ERWIN, IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, FUCK YOU, CAUSE GUESS WHAT? I AM GAY AS A FUCKING PRIDE PARADE FLOAT, GOT IT?"

Matthew was just spitting out words with no rhyme or rhythm. He didn't even know what he was saying, or the consequences. At this moment, at this first high Matthew'd had in a long, long time, at this high of pure, unadulterated, unhindered, unquestionable rage, at this point of no return, at him crossing the goddamn Rubicon and just moving on with his fucking life, Matthew'd had enough.

He was hysterical.

"NOPE. NOPE. I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE! GOODBYE, GOOD VERY WELL BYE, HERE'S MY FUCKING PAPERWORK, MY FUCKING BADGE, REVOKE MY GODDAMN LICENSE. TWENTY-SIX YEARS, TWENTY-SIX YEARS OF TRYING TO MAKE PEOPLE WHO I KNOW'LL NEVER LOVE ME, NEVER GIVE A DAMN ABOUT ME UNLESS I MAKE 200K A YEAR. SO THAT THEY CAN LEECH OFF IT. TWO PEOPLE WHO THINK THE WORLD FUCKING OWES THEM SOMETHING, TWO PEOPLE WHO THINK THAT I OWE THEM EVERYTHING. BUT GUESS WHAT? GUESS FUCKING WHAT? I OWE THEM NOTHING, FUCKING NOTHING. I TRIED TO GIVE THEM THE WORLD, BUT THEY CAN'T EVEN LOOK AT ME IN THE EYES, ALRIGHT?

IT'S LIKE I'M NOT A WORTHWHILE PERSON, LIKE I'M NOT SOMEONE WITH FEELINGS, TOO."

Matthew was stripping, not in the nudity sense, but stripping himself of, well, metaphorically but not literally, everything. His career. His residency. His badge. Any hope of his parents' approval. Everything.

The Phoenix is supposed to rise from the ashes, yeah? And after burning through all the baggage within the span of five minutes, Matthew felt like a fucking Phoenix. He was sure that he had no future left anyway, so why even try? Why even try to stay grounded within the reality that had failed him time and time again?

Matthew ripped his name tag from his coat, threw his bag full of paperwork and icky stuff across the floor - even within his rage he still didn't want to destroy a patient's paperwork; it wasn't their fault that he was having an existential crisis right now - and every pen, every Popsicle stick, every pin, every rubber band, every eraser, every pencil, every piece of paper within his pockets, all the little knick-knanks he'd acquired from his residency, all the little doctor-y items that plagued his pockets like locusts, he metaphorically and literally threw out, onto the floor, because he'd fucking quit.

Even his badge was tossed to the curb, and greater still his catharsis would have been if he had his medical diploma to rip in half.

Then, he was gone, out the door, just as quickly and suddenly as his outburst had come and went, and considering that he'd just lost his career, his residency, his parents' love - if they had any for him in the first place - and possibly his apartment, too, he felt scarily calm.

Matthew didn't wait for the bus to come.

He walked through the night, hands cold but calmly slipped into his thick jacket. Matthew didn't know how long he'd been walking. It was just that somehow, someway, he was now standing in front of a lake.

Speaking of lakes, though, ever since Med school started, Matthew hadn't been able to find the time, any time at all, to go swimming. He made a mental note to go to the pool next week with Alfred, just to unwind and have some damn fun, because he fucking wanted to have fun for once.

Water to put out the fire in his soul.

Matthew's phone rang.

Without fear, without hesitance, without weakness, he answered.

"Hello." Matthew's greeting was not a question. It was an answer.

Of course it'd be his father.

"MATTHEW. We heard what happened! We know what you did! Do you realize how embarrassing this is? How embarrassing this is for your mom and I? What about us? What about our feelings, too, Matthew? You WORTHLESS, WORTHLESS, sorry excuse of a person! You goddamn son of a bitch!"

"Your feelings, huh?" Matthew asked, voice calm, like silk, cool as the body of water he stood in front of. "Fucking asshole."

"WHAT did you just say to ME?" His father sounded dangerous, as if he was about to murder someone.

Matthew didn't care, cause that someone was Matthew. Matthew cared for sure if his father went out and hurt someone, but Matthew? Matthew didn't care. Dad could do what he wanted. Matthew didn't, he couldn't, have a care in the world for his own safety.

Matthew's voice was flat, but also smooth, and it was in good taste. "Yeah, about that. I hate you, you know? You've ruined my life. I wasted seven years, seven fucking years."

"We did this for YOU."

"For me? Hmm. I'll have to disagree." Matthew couldn't believe the wave of calm washing over him right now. "Goodbye."

"You call me SIR."

"Goodbye, you fucking bitch."

Matthew pressed the end call button before his father could even reply, and for good measure, he threw his phone into the lake.

There. Gone. His parents couldn't call him back.

Wednesday, 4:29 A.M.

Matthew's hands burned with cold.


The plot bunny strikes again!

Seriously, though, I should start actually finishing stories before I start new ones. XD

Well, I hope that you enjoyed this chapter, and I'm sorry this isn't that accurate to the actual residency experience. I'm not personally a resident, but I have experienced my fair share of burnout. Of course, not on the same level as poor Matthew, and I hope that I didn't insult any actual medical residents with my glaring inaccuracies, but I really just had to write this down. Writing down ideas like this are like a scratch that needs itching.

I hope that you enjoyed this chapter, and other than that, have a nice day and be kind to people and turtles. :)

I like turtles.