On the morning of your 17th birthday, you wake up to the most tremendous pain in the region of your left hip. It's a searing pain, white hot and sharp. It makes you think of cattle branding and you're surprised that you can't smell the scent of burning flesh. The pain makes you think of when you knocked a hot coal from the fire onto your leg, it makes your throat tighten and your head swim in much the same way. Slowly, as the minutes tick away, the pain recedes some and you find yourself able to breath again.
Even after the pain passes you find yourself unwilling to get out of bed. You know that if you do, curiosity will get the better of you and you will have to look. You don't want to look. If you look you have to acknowledge it, and you're sure that you will panic. You know what the pain meant, it meant that you'd been marked. You're not sure whether being marked was a curse or a blessing.
There will be a signature and a sentence sprawled across your hip. And those two lines will mean that your entire world will change. You're not sure that you're ready for that. Ma and Da are up by this point, you can hear them moving around, letting you sleep in because it's your birthday. You're glad they haven't burst in yet, because you're certain that the panic and indecision are written all over your face.
You anxiously bite at your lip, not sure what to do. You can't just ignore it, not now that you know it's there. In the end you get up and move to stand in front of the mirror, because sod it, and you haltingly lift the end of your nightgown up to your waist. Fuck, it's there. Curving around your hip bone is a name, written in bold and as plain as day.
You move closer to the mirror, contorting your torso to get a better look at the name. You find an angle that works and your breath catches in your throat. Plain as day is the name Patience Mount, now branded upon your body. Patience Mount. The name of your soulmate. Just thinking the name brings a brief smile to your lips, no two words could ever sound more like home to your teenage self. The smile is short lived though, because you realise that it is the name of a girl. A girl. You are going to love a girl, and there's nothing you can do about it. It is fated. The thought makes the smile drop from your face, you don't think you'll ever be allowed to love a girl.
A lot changes for you over the next four years. You leave the farm that you have called your home for all of your life, you leave a Ma and Da and the endless sheep. You leave the quiet and the green and all you have ever known. You leave and you miss it, but you can't bring yourself to want to return. Not when Ma spent every opportunity trying to find you a husband. Not when all you have to look forward to in Pembrokeshire is a husband and keeping house. Not when you know with every bone in your body that all you want to do with your life is nursing. Not when, deep down, you know that if you had stayed you would never be happy.
Two weeks after your 19th birthday you move to London and begin training as a nurse. At first, it's hard to get used to everything. You find that you have a harder time adjusting then you would. London is big, so much bigger than you had expected. And so much noisier. Every one's always in such a rush. The hospital is clinical and detached and the hours are long and hard and draining. The girls look down on you, why you're not sure but you can feel it. You're finding it hard to make friends and it makes the loneliness so much more apparent.
You reach a point at which it feels as though you're barely keeping your head above water. You kind of wish that you could just give up and return to Wales. Marry the lad from down the way that Ma seems to her sights set on. But you don't. For some reason you persevere, and you adjust. It doesn't get all that much easier. The loneliness bites at you when you're supposed to be sleeping sometimes, the long hours leave you drained and aching. The other girls gossiping makes you irritable. But you cope. Maybe it's just to prove that you can.
Never mind the reason, but you muddle along. Because something in you tells you that this is where you need to be. You know that deep down, this is what will make you happy. Nursing is all you have ever wanted to do with your life. You want to care for the sick and help others in whatever way you can. If the long and gruelling hours don't make you happy, well at least you're satisfied. And so when you write home to Ma and Da you're sure to tell them how wonderful London is, and how much you're learning, and you make sure to use the word happy at least twice.
One day in your second year you draw the short straw in rotation and you find yourself placed on male surgical. You're grumbling to yourself, making your way there when you raise your head. It just so happens that you meet the eyes of a blonde nurse, and so what if the eye contact lasts just a fraction of a second too long. And so what if for some reason the rest of your shift is spent in a happy daze despite the numerous men that try to get too personal.
The next day you see the blonde nurse on male surgical and the fact that she's there makes you smile. You take note of the fact that's she's taller than most. The day after that, you find yourself volunteering to take an extra day on male surgical. You don't see the blonde nurse and your shift drags.
It's another few weeks before its your turn on the ward again, and of course you don't spend any time thinking about the blonde nurse and whether or not she could possibly want to be friends. As you're getting changed into your uniform, your eyes catch your mark in the mirror. You say the name out loud and it makes your lips quirk up in a smile. It's been absolutely ages since you let yourself dwell on it. Well, you suppose, it has been three years and nothing has happened.
You find yourself running late, which isn't all that odd. After all, you're not the most prompt of people. You have exactly fifteen seconds until your shift is to start when you push through the doors and into the ward. Almost perfectly on time, albeit panting from running (you're hoping Matron never finds out about that).
You pause as you try to catch your breath, and you hear footsteps coming towards you. It's not Matron at least, you'd know if it was (you'd learnt early on to memorise the sound of her footsteps). You look up as the footsteps stop and find yourself face to face with the blonde nurse. She opens her mouth to say something and the words that come make you gape at her like a fool.
"Running a little late?"
You feel a burning sensation on your hip, white hot and searing, so intense you're worried about fainting. Your hand flies to your side, and you know that you're openly gaping at her, at a loss for words. Her smirk is replaced with a look of worry and you hurry to catch yourself. You straighten and try to ignore the pain in your side that seems intent on not receding.
"Something like that, lost track of the time is all." Her face twitches and for a second you allow yourself to wonder. Then it passes and she introduces herself as Patsy. Something settles at the base of your spine, the cold snaking fingers of disappointment you think, but you try your best to shake it off. After all, women loving women isn't seemly or often done.
The two of you become fast friends and end up spending a lot of your alone time together. You drink together in the evenings and go to the pictures and take walks in the park. Patsy helps to stave off the loneliness that now seems to perpetually inhabit your soul. She is kind and caring and funny and wonderful and beautiful and so out of your reach. You think you must love her, but if that's not something you can ever admit then you won't mind much. After all, you've been allowed to get close to her in a way that no one else seems to be.
You finish your training and you find yourself as the newest nurse on male surgical. The groping hands and the obscene men don't bother you half when Patsy and you work the same shift. You and Patsy go out to celebrate. Most of the girls in the nurses home get ready together, but both you and Patsy insist on absolutely not doing that. You can't get changed in front of her, after all you have her name written plain as day across your left side. You're glad that Patsy is a very private person as well, you're not sure you could convince yourself to look away from her, and that would be both awkward and bad mannered.
The two of you spend a few hours at the pub around the corner before returning to your room. You've both been drinking and then you drink some more, because you're celebrating and there is every other night to adhere to the rules. Before long you're both giggling in an undignified matter but you don't care. Your eyes meet and somehow your lips touch and you're still smiling but neither of you pull away.
Then you pull away and Patsy's face crumples in pain that for once she's not quick enough to hide. You guess it must be the alcohol. She clutches her shoulder and mumbles a word you weren't even aware she knew. Her face is scrunched up and you can almost feel her pain it's so tangible and your concern goes beyond mere worry.
"Pats, what's wrong?" Your voice is gentle, as is your touch against her arm.
There's a long silence before she answers you, almost as if she's afraid to admit it. "My shoulder, it hurts."
"What sort of pain is it?" You keep your voice gentle and soft.
She hesitates for even longer than the first time before she answers you "It's a burning pain Deels, nothing to worry about. It'll pass."
You go to speak but your voice catches in your throat and you fight to control the way your lip begins to wobble. You snag it between your teeth and take a deep breath, composing yourself before you ask what you're about to ask. "Burning?"
She knows exactly what you are asking and through her pain she turns to look at you. She really looks at you, in a way that you've only ever read about. Staring into another's soul and all that. She sighs before she shifts, her hands reaching for the front of her checked shirt. She undoes a couple of buttons and pulls the shirt to below her shoulder blade.
Before you is a name and sentence, and your mouth drys even as your eyes begin to water. A feeling a lot like joy begins to rise within you, and a sob escapes you. Your hand finds its way to Patsy's covered shoulder of its own accord and squeezes. Her hand rises to clasp yours and she tangles your fingers together, intertwining them. They interlock perfectly and you remember that this was fated, in a way, and you feel happy as you stare at your name scrawled haphazardly across her shoulder blade.