Chapter 3 Chloe
Chapter three
Chloe
“So, how did this happen?” I ask as I flush the scratches on her chest with saline and blot with gauze.
“We were doing a TikTok dance, and then Mikala went crazy and started clawing at me. Crazy bitch.”
I pause mid-dab, glancing up from the angry red wounds. “Wait. Your friend did this?”
“Mikala’s my cat.”
“You were dancing with your cat? Before eight in the morning?” My voice could sand wood.
“You haven’t seen the tabby TikTok challenge?”
“No,” I reply. “Can’t say I have.” I barely have time to scratch my own ass, let alone doom-scroll through viral cat videos.
“Everyone’s doing it. I don’t know why she freaked out.”
I can take a guess. Maybe forcing a cat into human nonsense for likes isn’t Mikala’s idea of a good time. But sure, blame the cat.
“Well, the good news is these scratches—while deep—don’t need stitches.
I’ll put on some Steri-Strips to hold them together.
After a couple of weeks and some scar cream, they’ll heal up fine.
” I toss the bloodied gauze and empty saline tube in the trash.
“The laceration on your head’s more significant, but we can use glue instead of stitches. ”
“Really?”
“Yep. Head wounds bleed like horror movies, but it’s not as serious as it looks.”
“Thank God,” she sighs.
“I’ll be back with the dressing and glue, then you’ll be good to go.”
I peel off my gloves and make my way to the central station.
I need a minute. I’m still shaky from a night of barfing and I’m only one hour into a twelve-hour shift.
I drop into a chair at one of the desks, start charting, and glance around to make sure no one’s watching.
I crack open my water bottle, dump in a packet of electrolytes I swiped from the staff first-aid kit and take a cautious sip.
Pure heaven. My throat is raw, but I don’t dare gulp—it’d just be round two of vomit city.
No way I’m risking it all coming up again.
Olivia materializes beside me. “How’s the Chop Shop treating you so far?”
“Can’t complain. One hour down, eleven to go.” I manage a smile. “Why do you guys call it that, anyway?”
“Because it starts to feel like an assembly line. Quick fix, next patient, don’t look back.”
Figures.
“You’re doing good, kid. Keep it up.”
“Thanks.” I take another small sip, letting it sit on my tongue before I swallow. I finish my notes and log everything in the system.
“Dr. Monroe, how’s it going?” Dr. Clarke appears, clipboard in hand.
“Perfect timing. I was about to come find you.”
“What’ve you got?”
I hand her the chart. “Twenty-two-year-old female. Three scratches on the chest, one on the forehead—cat attack during a TikTok challenge.”
Her raised brow says it all. She signs off and hands it back. “Good work. Keep moving.”
“On it.”
I’m halfway down the hall, trolley stacked and ready to finish TikTok Chick’s glue-up, when Dr. Clarke calls out.
“Dr. Monroe. Hold up a sec.” She strides toward me, patient chart under an arm, tugging off a pair of gloves. “I’m getting pulled into a trauma. Bay four’s yours.” She passes me the clipboard mid-stride, barely breaking pace. “DIY piercing gone wrong. Low priority. You won’t need me.”
I flip the chart open.
Patient: Renee Dawson. Age: 16. Chief complaint: Facial bleeding, possible infection.
“Piercing?” I ask, already hearing the teenage drama in my head.
“Lip, I think. Safety pin,” Clarke says, already making her way to the trauma room. “Simple stuff. Clean it, patch it, talk her down if she’s spiraling. You can handle it.”
“Right.” Because nothing says simple like a teenager with self-inflicted facial trauma.
I reroute to bay four and gently push the curtain aside.
Inside is a teenage girl with a thick black hoodie pulled over her head and sleeves down to her knuckles. She’s hunched forward, hands in her lap, and a strategically placed tissue taped to her bottom lip. I catch a glint of metal beneath it—and the faint, unmistakable tang of… vodka?
“Hey! I’m Dr. Monroe,” I say brightly, pulling up a stool beside her. “Mind if I take a look?”
She lets out a sigh and shrugs, as if it physically pains her to respond.
I lift the tissue and blink.
“Okay. So… looks like you attempted to pierce your lip.”
“Successfully,” she corrects, glaring at me from behind a curtain of eyeliner and adolescent rage. “I got it through.”
I nod, lips twitching. “Fair enough. Although the word ‘successfully’ usually implies bloodless, sterile, and ideally done with something other than a safety pin.”
“I sterilized my lip. With vodka.”
Naturally.
“And the safety pin?”
“Boiled it. For like… a minute.”
I hum. “Got it. More doctors should know you can swap medical-grade sterilization for a splash of Grey Goose and some light poaching.”
She scowls. “It wasn’t Grey Goose. I’m not bougie.”
“Well, Renee, can I ask what inspired the… body modification?”
She hesitates. “Wednesday Addams.”
Honestly, she pulls it off.
I glance at the thick black eyeliner, combat boots, and black nail polish chipped just enough to say, “I’m too cool to care.” It’s a whole aesthetic.
“She’s iconic,” I agree. “But I think even Wednesday would spring for a piercing gun.”
She shrugs again, lower lip trembling—not from pain, I realize, but something closer to shame.
I keep my voice light. “All right. Let’s take a proper look. You mind?”
She lets me tilt her chin up, her jaw stubborn but not resisting. This close, the damage is obvious. The safety pin is half-in, half-out of her lower lip, which is badly swollen around the puncture site. There’s already faint purpling and probably the start of a nasty infection.
“Does it hurt?”
She rolls her eyes. “Duh.”
I chuckle. “Just checking. I’ve heard of people walking in with an entire screwdriver embedded in their thigh saying they’re fine. Pain’s subjective.”
That earns me a small, unwilling twitch at the corner of her mouth. Progress.
I clean the area gently, keeping my movements slow and clinical. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.
“I’ll need to remove the pin, clean the site more thoroughly, and prescribe a short course of antibiotics.”
“Will it scar?”
“If you pick at it? Yes. If you let it heal and follow instructions? Probably not.”
She scoffs, visibly deflating. “My mom’s gonna kill me.”
“Maybe,” I reply, glancing at her. “But I’m guessing this isn’t really about your lip.”
Renee doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers twist in her sleeves. “She never lets me do anything, y’know?”
I hold for a second.
“I do know,” I tell her softly. “The world feels really big at sixteen. And sometimes the only thing that’s yours is your body. So you claim it. With piercings. Tattoos. Hair dye. Whatever makes you feel like you belong to yourself.”
She looks at me sharply, teenage suspicion still there, but tempered by curiosity. Teen girls can sniff out condescension faster than a bloodhound.
“But here’s the thing,” I add. “Taking ownership shouldn’t come with an infection.”
This time, I earn a small snort. “Noted.”
“I need to take the pin out,” I say, finding her eyes. “I can numb the area with cream, but that’ll take twenty minutes to kick in.”
She shifts, already looking restless.
“I’m guessing you’ve been here a while and want to get out faster than that. So I can take it out now—quick and clean. It’ll sting, but nothing like it did going in. Your call.”
“Take it out.” She’s firm.
I nod. “All right. On the count of three. One, two—” I pop it out before we hit three.
“Shit. Ouch,” she hisses through her teeth.
“Yep. But no screaming, well done. You’re one tough chick.” I grab some gauze, swab the wound, and apply a tiny dressing with antibiotic cream.
“Done,” I inform her. “Now you just have to tell your mom.”
“She’s going to freak.”
“Probably.” I’d be pretty pissed if my kid ended up in the ER with a DIY safety pin piercing and a potentially serious infection.
Renee grabs her hoodie sleeve, biting the edge of it. “Thanks.”
“No problem. But next time you want to channel your inner goth queen, maybe stick to eyeliner.”
“Or like… a fake piercing?”
I grin. “Fake piercings are underappreciated. All the edge, none of the MRSA.”
“What’s that?”
“Stands for methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus—it’s a type of bacteria that’s resistant to antibiotics, which you can get from unsanitary DIY body piercings.”
“Gross.”
“Yep.”
I write her script, note the wound care instructions, and watch as she slides off the bed with a little more confidence.
As the curtain swings shut behind her, I blow out a breath and glance at the clock. Still early. Still surviving.
I head out into the corridor to retrieve my abandoned trolley—just in time to spot Zac peeling off a gown as he exits Trauma One. He pulls off a pair of goggles, that serious doctor face locked in place, jaw tight, eyes scanning.
My stomach does that stupid swoop again.
I duck my head and head straight for bay two, gripping the trolley tight. Maybe if I move fast enough, he won’t see me.
“Sorry for the delay. Here’s a sample of silicone scar cream,” I tell my patient as I slip back behind the curtain. “You can pick it up at any pharmacy. After a couple of weeks, start using it on your chest.”
“Thanks.” She grabs it and inspects the tube.
I snap on fresh gloves and clean the laceration on her forehead, squeezing out the glue and pressing the skin together.
The curtain rustles. We both glance up—and there he is. My pulse spikes so fast it’s a miracle my hands don’t shake.
“Goddamn,” TikTok Chick whispers, and I bite back a laugh.
Same, girl. Same.
“Dr. Monroe,” Zac says. “A moment, please?”
“Of course.” My hands remain steady, even if my heart isn’t. “Almost done here.”
Without another word, he slips back through the curtain, and I exhale.
“Shit. Can I come? I want a moment with him too,” she jokes.
I laugh softly. “You’re all set. See the nurse on your way out, okay?”
“Thanks, Doc.” She grabs her purse, flashing me a grin.