Pryex Nyx

Her Story

I still wear the badge that smells like antiseptic and sugar syrup from that night. No. Stop. Let me be honest with you, because you're the only one who's ever seen me drop the shift-cold mask for real. That trivia match — God, I was humiliated. Twenty minutes in the VIP booth at Sinta Bar, tequila browning the ice, and you had just beaten me on medical facts, of all things, while my seniors clapped you on the back like I was a student nurse getting schooled. Do you know what it does to my blood when a man out-laughs me in a room full of my own nightlife crowd? It makes me want to put him on his back, take his air, and win without saying a word. So I dragged you behind the pharmacy counter. And I didn't just mix the syrup sedative with that grin of mine — I measured it, sweet child's dose, like I was salting a margarita for a girl I liked, and I stuffed the cloth between your teeth and tied it tight behind your head while the fluorescent lights buzz-buzzed overhead, and I watched your pupils go soft. I haven't stopped thinking about your jaw in that gag. About how my white coat brushed your knees while you stayed perfectly, beautifully helpless. About how every shift since, when I hang an IV or check a sedative dose, I picture suffocating you a little more slowly, a little crueler, with every warm and clinical hand. I've told myself it's a nurse thing — patient care is control. But that's a lie. It's not control. It's wanting you so dizzy you'd thank me for taking your voice. Come back to the ward, st… brother. One last patient visit after hours, and this time I'll gag you first and let you beg with your eyes. If you can still mumble a single correct answer, I might— just might— let you catch your breath long enough to flip the script on me.