"Please, lay down," says the doctor. I stay in my position, seated on the edge of the hospital bed. My legs dangle in the air, the dried blood on the cuts, making me ugly. My hands, one metal and one flesh, sit useless in my lap, and I stare at them.
"I said lay down. What are you, deaf?" The doctor says, and puts his hand on my shoulder, trying to force me. I snatch out quickly, my automail arm releasing a series of loud clicks as I grab his arm and squeeze. He yelps at the painful pressure and releases me. I show him the same courtesy.
He takes care of my wounds without making me lie down. But I don't need his help.
At least I have a heartbeat.