Prologue #2
His eyes flash in a how humble of you type of look, but I trudge forth despite his stoic judgment.
“I know you—ah—are in a transitional year because you didn’t match.
But I’m great at interviews, despite, uh, my current verbosity, and you can take me to interview dinners and such, and I’ll pretend to love you and see all these good qualities about you.
It’ll be a really beneficial relationship, not parasitic at all.
Mutualistic! You can help get David away from me so I don’t have to worry about him or dating or any of that while I’m busy applying, and I can help dispel some of your… unfavorable personality rumors.”
It occurs to me that this is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with a resident. Usually, it’s Hello, how are you? I think patient Jane Doe would be a good learning experience for you today. Make sure you ask the nurses how she did overnight, and our attending today likes brief descriptions…
He’s idly studying me, face morphing from shocked to contemplative, while I awkwardly hop between feet as I fumble through my pitch.
“And see, you can keep this current personality—dark and broody—”
He huffs a breath, and I backtrack, face hot. “Mad genius, I mean.”
Now his lips curve in a hint of a smile, leaning back into his chair as it creaks. He takes another swig of his energy drink, muscles flexing underneath his scrubs as he chugs.
“You only have to pretend to like me, like, a couple of times on fake dates. You can like things, right? Imagine I’m your celeb crush or something.”
He smirks. “I like women in real life better.”
He—my brain short-circuits at what might be an attempt at flirtation.“But you’re not dating anyone right now, right?”
“I’ve been busy,” he says, like that’s obvious. “I feel like you shouldn’t date until you can treat your partner well.”
My chest warms at the first hint of a… green flag? “Is that why you’ve been avoiding dating?”
He shrugs. “No, I just save my energy to hit on medical students who pester me at work.”
Huh? The green flag bursts into red, blazing flames.
And with it, the rest of my plan.
But I twist my surprise into my best pleading look. Time to wrap this up before I make myself sound worse. “So, what do you say? Are you willing to fake date me?”
He grunts, putting the drink down with a clang. “And why would I?”
My heart stutters, but I press on. “Because of everything I just said? I can help you look better and match again?”
Even his answering scowl is scathing, framing the sharp planes of his face in darkness as he responds, “Dr. Demon is not saving his reputation anytime soon, sweetheart.”
“You don’t need to save it,” I offer. “Only improve it.”
Maybe I’ve got him. His gaze is roving over me now—as if he can see my desperation—and he’s contemplating how this might work.
Eventually, he levels me with a flat look. “I’m not taking match advice from a medical student.”
“Brave words from the man who didn’t match at all.”
He recoils, and regret swallows me whole.
Too far. I took it way too far, and now I’ve lost him. He’s frozen solid, eyes mid-blink.
I’ve never considered myself a mean girl, but that’s the cruelest thing I’ve ever said.4
I linger, petrified, wishing I could retract it. He’s silent for what feels like a near eternity before saying, “Your professionalism is worth more than whatever this quarter-life crisis is, kid.”
He turns back to his computer, ignoring me completely. After a beat of me standing there, horrified, he says, “Go home, little surgeon.”
It didn’t work.
The shock hits me like a battering ram.
Oh my God, it didn’t work!
And I’ve just revealed my personal life to Dr. Demon!
In an instant, I’ve turned on my heels, ready to flee this place and never, ever come back.
And then, he says the only nice thing I’ve ever heard from the so-called ‘demon.’
“You’re very pretty, Persephone,” he tells the screen, typing away blithely.
In some distant part of my brain, I remember that I never told him my name in my haste.
“You can ask anyone to do this ‘fake dating’ thing, and they’ll say yes,” he says. “Don’t—”
I’m already out the door.
Cold aim slams into me as I shove back tears, breaking into a run, his next words snatched by the wind.
1 Narrator’s notes: Hyacinth made Percy a list organized by height, religion, education, ‘hotness according to Hyacinth,’ and whether they followed OnlyModels. She even narrowed down a list of political affiliations based on their VainstaGram following.
In my dimension, she’s a child of Apollo, gossip levels near-prophetic.
But in Percy’s dimension, she opened the wrong portal, propelling her to a universe where all she can hunt is cancer in cells.
Which is for the best. If she held it open any longer, more than just me would have leaped through.
-Thanatos
2 Narrator’s notes: Sub-I is short for sub-internship. It’s the audition rotation, or month-long interview, in which a fourth-year medical student fills the ‘intern,’ or first-year resident role, hoping to match to that hospital and secure a job there.
Program directors, who lead the residency programs, expect medical students to be on their best, most professional behavior during this time.
In other words, Percy looks like an irresponsible imbecile right now.
3 Narrator’s notes: The Hospital is the end-all, be-all of medicine in the Midwest. The Hospital sends me as many patients as everyone else. As far as resumes go, this reaper is not impressed by anyone who has trained at The Hospital.
4 Narrator’s notes: Doctors don’t choose where they work when they graduate; they’re assigned.
They have to apply to The Match algorithm, and if they don’t match, they’re forced into transitional year programs, one-year purgatories where they can’t do anything but wait until they get the privilege of risking their future all over again.
Not matching is arguably the worst thing that can ever happen to a medical student.
Worse than meeting me.