I need to stop fooling myself. I've had my eyes and ears closed for so long, I've made myself believe his words, that they meant something. Frank's words. Worth exactly nothing. I made myself believe that he loved me, that there was a future. It was so easy to get caught up in it, in the fantasy, it was comforting to just rest in it.
I can't anymore. To Frank Burns, I'm nothing more than a notch on his bedpost. I don't want to be a notch to someone, I want to be someone's everything. My own bedpost is full enough. I wanna scratch him out, why was it even so important to have someone, why have I wasted so much time? Because the whole inside is like a serpent, demanding to be fed. It makes you do strange things.
I need to stop now.

"Come on, honeybun, it's been so long."

Frank's lips left wet spots on her neck as he kissed his way down to her collarbone. She didn't like the sensation of his saliva drying on her skin, it felt nothing but unsanitary.

"Stop it, Frank, I told you I'm not in the mood. Someone might walk in."

She tried to sit up, but he pushed her down again, his arms so persistent.

"Just relax, darling, no one is coming."

He switched to the other side of her neck. It felt like one of those suckerfishes from an aquarium had attached itself to her.

"Your skin is so delicious," he mumbled. "I wish it was a candy flavor, I would just eat box after box after box."

She frowned, that was such a strange thing to say. Disturbing.

"Frank, will you just…"

"Darling, I need you. It's been so long. Can I come over tonight? I know you're tired, but you don't even have to do anything, you can just lie down and enjoy. It's been forever, and it can be dangerous for a man to go too long without, you know. I'm a doctor, I should know. And you always have to do what the doctor says."

He giggled, and his shrill voice made her skin crawl. Not tingle, like it once had. Or had it? Had she ever, truly, enjoyed their time together, or had it just been… convenient. To have someone, to be part of a team.
No, there had been good times, Frank could be fun. Up for trying things. Pretending. She was good at that too, in many ways. A little too good even. Pretend her boyfriend was a brilliant surgeon. That he was a strong, brave military man. A true patriot. That he even was a boyfriend, that he someday would be something more. When in reality he was a mediocre surgeon at best, would hide in the face of danger and hope it would go away, and his patriotism was limited to an American flag on the back porch of his house back in Fort Wayne. Where he lived with his wife.

His hands were under her shirt now. They felt sticky. Why would the hands of a grown man feel sticky? Sticky hands and too much saliva in his mouth.

"Stop it, Frank, I told you I don't want to."

She pushed him away, harder this time. Thank God for strong thighs and military training. She got off the bed and pulled her shirt down.

"Well, you never want to do anything anymore."

His whiny voice ground on her very last ounce of patience. What had she even thought would happen when she came in here, that they could simply spend some time together? Talk, for once, like normal people?
She ran her hands over her hair, all messed up now thanks to a certain someone and his sticky hands.
Frank got up off the bed too and stood in front of her, cheeks flushed, hands on his hips, like an upset housewife.

"All you ever do anymore is brush your hair or write letters or have headaches. When you're not busy making googly eyes at Pierce, that is."

"What?"

"Oh, come on, I've seen how the two of you look at each other. Ever since you came back from that stupid aid station, it's so obvious, I'm no fool, I know something happened up there. He keeps staring at you, and when you look, he looks away, and then you look til he looks and then you look away. It's like being in high school all over again.

"You're crazy," she said and took a step toward the door. She did not have patience for this. "Delusional."

"It's true," he said and stepped in her way. "These days, it's not enough that I have to share you with any General passing by, I have to share you with Pierce too? It's Captains now, so what's next, I will walk into your tent one day and find O'Reilly's feet sticking out from under the sheet? One of them Sticky-Steves from the motor pool zipping up his pants?"

For a moment, her mind went blank. Then a thrumming started, deep inside, like a train, relentless. Crimson-red, an all-consuming rage bubbled up. She could feel her body grow hot. If she had looked at her skin, she was sure she would have seen it blistering. Fat, translucent bubbles, visual proof of the sensation, the hurt. But there were no lesions, just the burning anger. And his face, his mouth, his thin lips turning into nothing over a void of darkness.

"How dare you? How dare you speak to me like that?"

Her voice was shrill, way too loud, but she didn't even care who would hear. The whole camp might as well hear what a slimy, disgusting worm he was for all she cared.

"Oh sugar, I didn't mean…"

He stepped closer to her, his hands in front of him. His sticky, disgusting hands.

She didn't wait for him to say anything else, she just pushed him away from her. Hard. He fell backward, down on his cot, knocking things on his nightstand over as he fell. He flailed his arms around, like an idiotic flounder, his eyes wide in surprise.

"Don't you ever speak to me again, don't you even look at me, you lowlife, pathetic amoeba."

She looked around, trying to find something to throw. A helmet hung on the support beam and she grabbed it. Threw it at his face, wanting to draw blood, to make the vile thing bleed, but it only hit his shoulder. He whined as it fell to the floor.

The door opened.

"Hey, is everything okay in here, I heard commotion?"

Hunnicutt. He looked around the tent and frowned at Frank trying to get to his feet while grabbing at his shoulder. Good God, what a wimp he was.

"Margaret, everything okay?"

"Yes, Captain," Margaret said, with a grin big and forced. "Major Burns and I were just having a small discussion. But that's over now. It is so incredibly over now."

She stared at Frank. He had managed to get to his feet now and stood there with his mouth opening and closing, like the slimy amphibian that he was.

"Excuse me, I have some actual important business to attend to."

"Oookay," BJ said and quickly jumped out of her path as she made her way out of The Swamp.

The outside air felt cool against her face where the anger still burned brightly. She could hear her blood rushing; her hands were shaking, and her breath got caught in her throat as she tried to calm it down. It made a pathetic little sound. No. She would not cry, not again, not ever again would she cry over that sad excuse of a human being.
She ran her hands over her neck, wanting to wipe away every particle he had left on her skin. Which he would never touch again. He had talked to her like she was nothing, just some… some… He was the married one, he was the one breaking his vows. And not for the first time either, what about that receptionist? How was it even possible for such a chinless, lipless, characterless joke of a man to get so much action? Why had she ever descended to let him touch her? She was a catch, had been nominated for prom queen in eighth grade, would probably have won too if they hadn't moved a couple of weeks before prom. She could get anyone she wanted; Frank Burns should consider himself lucky to spend time in her presence.

Why wouldn't her stupid hands stop shaking?

God, she wished she had a friend, someone to talk to. Once, there had been an army of friends. Helen, Linda, Meredith, Tracy, and Veronica. A storm of loving arms, hugging, comforting, pouring wine, and wiping tears away. Ready to protect and defend, ready to hate and tear apart the fiend that had hurt one of their own.
Now, there was no one, just the squirming tadpole who treated her like the dirt under his boot.

"Hey there, Major, beautiful day, isn't it?"

She spun around and saw Klinger. Blue skirt billowing in the breeze, checkered jacket, and a hat with, what was that, a squirrel on top? He was carrying something on a plate. He frowned a little and studied her face.

"Is everything alright, Major?"

"Yes," she snapped. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Oh, no reason, I just thought you… Never mind." He shook his head, making the creature on top of his hat sway. "I'm on my way to post-op," he continued. "My sister just sent me these." He nodded to the plate in his hands. "They're Maamoul cookies, old family recipe, filled with dates, sugar, and love. They're really good, I've had three already. I was thinking some sugary goodness and Lebanese flair might cheer everyone up, don't you think?"

Margaret felt the corners of her mouth twitch a little. Klinger looked ridiculous in his outfit, his hairy legs sticking out from his skirt and his pumps looked like they belonged on the feet of Minnie Mouse. But his face was open and kind. Friendly.

"I'm sure everyone will enjoy them very much," she said, making her voice softer.

"Want one, Major?" Klinger held the plate out for her. "Or take more, my sister sent a huge batch."

She looked down at the plate. It was clear the cookies had traveled far, some edges were crumbled, and others were half, she could tell that Klinger had tried to push them back together. They for sure looked like they were baked, sent, and received, with a lot of love.

"I would love one, thank you." She grabbed a broken one. "Thank you, Corporal, that's very sweet of you."

"Don't mention it, my sister would kill me if she found out I didn't share."

They both stood in silence for a little bit, and it felt a little awkward. Margaret cleared her throat.

"You better get going then, Corporal."

"Oh yes, the sugar fairy cometh!" Klinger raised the plate up in the air. "Have a good day, Major."

"Same to you."

Margaret watched him walk away, his feet a little wobbly on the uneven ground. The creature on his hat bobbed along merrily. She looked down at the cookie in her hand. Her hand that wasn't shaking in rage anymore. It was still there, though, still burning crimson, but the short interaction with Klinger had been… nice. She glanced over towards The Swamp, hoping that Frank had seen it. Yes, Major Burns, I very much prefer the company of a hairy man dressed in a skirt. Or anyone from the motor pool, come to think of it. Some North Koreans. I prefer the company of the rats from the latrine, the silverfish in the mess tent, the fleas on the stray cats. She set her head high and headed towards her tent, making sure her back was straight, her steps determined.

Once inside, she carefully placed the cookie on a tissue on her desk. Beside it were her papers for Tokyo. Just six days left, thank God Colonel Potter had asked her to go. She needed a change of scene, some distance.
She grabbed a couple of more tissues, dipped them into a jar of cleansing crème on her makeshift vanity, and rubbed them all over her mouth and neck. She wanted to get rid of every molecule of Frank Burns-drool. Disgusting.
And yet, deep inside, she knew she would forgive him. He would beg and whine and she would crumble. Lock the anger away in yet another box. She was weak. Pathetic. She needed someone, someone on her side, someone who loved her, even if that love was nothing but a married man's lust, the thrill of stepping outside the shackles of marriage. A sick, twisted kind of love was still better than no love at all. Wasn't it?
She wiped the cream away. There, no traces of him, no traces of his mouth that spoke those horrible words.
Tokyo in six days. She could make it for six days, just keep busy, not fall for his sweet talk, his empty promises. She would not get lonely or scared, she would just focus, God dammit.
She looked down at her papers again. Imperial Hotel, 5th floor. Continental breakfast. Bathtub. A thick mattress. Follow up with patients, she would walk around in a real hospital, on real floors in heels that clattered, not stomp around in boots on wood. She would go out, meet people. Eat food from a plate, not a tray, drink champagne, go dancing. Be around people, be looked at, courted, perhaps. Probably. Men with broad shoulders that actually filled out their uniforms, who knew how to treat a lady. Men she could flirt with as much as she wanted because she was not the married one, not the one with three daughters waiting back home. That last thought did nothing to calm her down so she pushed it aside.
Maybe the trip would change something, even if it just made her feel like a person for a couple of days, not just a thing you could use and toss aside, make promises to late at night, and then pretend like nothing had happened by the light of day.
Six days. That was nothing.
On impulse, she headed over to her closet, pulled out her suitcase, and threw it on the bed. She could start packing already. Underwear, stockings. The sight of her bag would keep her strong, focused. 'Eyes on the price, soldier', like her father used to tell her. Yes, eyes on the prize. She was the prize, and she would see to it that things changed. She turned around and looked at herself in the mirror.
Eyes on the prize, soldier. Eyes on the prize.