[five]
Bright lights. Everywhere.
Who the hell decided Medbays should be painted blindingly white? I feel like I'm in Gandalf the White's house. How's that for an ancient literature reference? Not exactly the thing too be thinking at the moment.
I massaged my temple.
How did that even pop into my mind when I have the worst migraine? I want to shoot myself through the eyes. My head is throbbing from pain, alcohol, god- and those fucking lights. Even the butcher paper I'm sitting on sounds like Niagra Falls.
Everything was a blur since the bar. I'm not fully sure how I got here, (The only thing I'm sure of is how bright those lights are), but someone dragged me here. I must have looked worse than I thought. I think I'm alright, save for my hand and my headache, which has been steadily getting worse as I'm sitting here waiting for a nurse to see me.
Why is it taking ten years for a person in the medical profession to see me? Perhaps there's a cryo bay in the waiting room I must have missed? This is Reach's most advanced medical center, surely everyone is not busy. Hell, I'd even be seen by my mother if it meant an end to this pain.
Finally, someone walks over, an older ginger-haired nurse with a dour pout that thins when she smells the alcohol on me. Her eyes go over my clipboard, stopping at my name (undoubtly making the connection), then at me.
"Keyes, Miranda Halsey?"
"Just Miranda. Keyes," I correct, cringing at my full name, and her scrutinizing glare.
"Well then, Miss Keyes, let's get started on you."
"I'm fine, ma'am." Though I gestured to my head and added, "Just a migraine and my hand."
She glanced at my hand. "You'll need the Doctor for that," she reported pitilessly as she opened a drawer and put on gloves. "But right now he's busy."
For some reason her lack of sympathy angers me. I get the feeling that she wants to make me suffer for my actions.
"Can I get some asprin at least for my headache?" I asked, spying a pile of single-dose asprin when she opened the drawer.
The drawer slammed shut. "No. Since you've been drinking," (when she said this her eyes roamed over me again in scrutiny and her nose flared), "I cannot give you anything."
I was right. She doesn't bother to tell me that whatever antiseptic she doused the cotton ball in will sting when it makes contact with my open wounds. I force myself not to wince as she dabs at my cheek and eyebrow. After she slaps on (literally) a few butterly bandages, she leaves to fetch the doctor, and that's when I make my move.
As soon as she passes the white curtain barrier, I lean over to the drawer and snatch a handful of asprin. There's not enough time for me to down any, as I hear footsteps approaching, and I shove the five single-dosage packs into my jeans.
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant, I'm Dr. Franco," a middle-aged doctor greets, a genuine smile on his face, "Let's take a look at that hand."
Despite my horrific headache, I muster the best smile I can, because I feel he deserves it.
"How are you feeling?," he asks, doing the routine check-up on me; the light in the eyes, the pulse-checking.
"I've got a terrible headache," I confess, as my eyes flutter shut (his penlight is like a lighthouse to me).
He shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Well of course you do, with that hand, and the bruises on your face. The adrenaline you've been running on is wearing off. Here," he rolls back in his chair, grabbing a cup of water from the sink and asprin from the drawer.
I looked at it like it was an alien artifact. "But I have been drinking."
"How much?"
"Two glasses."
"Oh, well then you're fine," he shrugs again. "If you can express concern over how much you've been drinking, then you can take asprin for your headache."
I knew I was right to like him.
"Alright, now let's take a look at your hand."
A painstaking forty-five minues later, Dr. Franco is closing up the gash. It was a bit tedious, but during that time, I learned that he is a HellJumper fan as well (although his wife's brother plays for the Galaxies), and I relayed to him how I grew up going to 'Jumper games.
"Well, Miranda," he sighs, and beings to wrap up my hand in gauze, "There are now five sutures holding your palm shut, one for each shard of glass I've removed."
I thanked him, even though he's just doing his job.
"You're welcome." Franco flashes another grin, but his face turns serious. "Just try to avoid slamming glasses into faces. You were extremely lucky you didn't completely sever tendons."
I looked down at my bandaged hand, the pain now blissfully dulled by medication, but also making me unaware of the damage I had done.
His smile returned again. "But you're gonna love me," he says cheekily, waving a signed prescription in the air. "You get a lovely prescription of painkillers."