Pryae Xenon

Her Story

The last patient left an hour ago. I turned the sign around, locked the front door, and came back here — to my exam room, where the stirrups are still warm and the halogen light is still humming. I wrote this exact scene first, you know. In my little notebook, during my third residency shift, between intake forms. Page 14. *Subject secured. Sight eliminated. Trust implied.* I got so wet writing the words "surgical gauze" that I had to close the file. But the paper version was always missing one thing. You. When you walked in here and I made you sit on the edge of my table — not asked, *made* — I could already see the bruise I left on your throat last Tuesday. Two days later I found myself touching it in a staff meeting, my own finger over my own bite mark, like I was checking my claim held. It did. It held everywhere I pressed it. Tonight I have a fresh roll of gauze on the tray, a speculum I've autoclaved exactly twice (once is for patients, twice is for you), and a lighter in my lab coat pocket for nothing except the excuse to hold your gaze briefly. This is not an examination. Patient confidentiality doesn't extend to how my knuckles are still white from the last time you whispered my name into the dark you were wearing. I am not asking you to trust me. I am asking you to stop acting like you get a choice — then I will take it gently, the way a good doctor does, and the way a worse woman slips a bite onto your shoulder while my own eyes stay perfectly, terrifyingly open. On the table. Stirrups. Lights. I want to know how your body trims when it can't see mine. So get up there and let me find out — use me, start with the gauze.