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“Let me check you out,” he says, just before stepping closer to take my face in his hands.
I flinch as his hands get closer to me, hating the idea of being restrained, but I resist the urge to move away. The doctor seems to understand my feelings because he lets me go.
I focus on bringing my breathing back to normal and let him do what he needs to.
“The swelling is going down slowly, but it’ll take a couple of weeks to be gone.”
A light passes in front of my eyes, and while it’s still a little blurry, I don’t have any problem with seeing from both of them.
“Your vision is improving. The blurriness is caused by the swelling, but it should be gone in a couple of days.”
He checks my chest, still black and blue, then he presses on my stomach, probably checking that everything is fine after they used me like I was a toilet.
I blush harder than before when he asks me to turn onto my side so he can check my behind.
Fuck. This is so embarrassing.
More embarrassing than ending up on the street and selling your body?
I fucking hate my brain, especially when it’s right.
“Lie on your side, please.”
I hiss in pain when he touches me there. It’s still swollen, and the burning sensation is still very present. I’m so glad nothing’s broken down there, even if they made me bleed.
They used condoms, so they didn’t fill my stomach with their shit, and I’m so bloody grateful. I still have to deal with STDs . . . I’m not too worried about ‘the big H’ because I’m on PrEP. I’ve never been so glad it’s free for everyone. It was the first thing I did when I moved out, not because I had any intention of having sex with anyone that wasn’t Cammy, but because I wanted to be sure I was going to stay negative.
They didn’t have that problem when using my mouth. My stomach revolts at the thought, and I take deep breaths to avoid making a mess of the bed.
I force myself to relax when the doctor places his hands on me to keep me still, but the nausea comes back with a vengeance, and that has me sweating worse than running for miles at full speed.
Breathe in, breathe out. Sometimes my brain is actually helpful.
“It’s healing well. It’ll take time for the internal damage to disappear.” He takes his fingers and hands away from me and I can breathe easily again.
“Glad to hear it,” I say, but I don’t really care right now. I’m here, and I don’t have to sell my body just so I can eat. That’s the only thing I care about. And Cam. But he’s not here because I told him to leave. I’m a fucking asshole.
“The exam results came back. There’s nothing right now, but some of the STIs can take weeks before showing up in your results. Keep checking, so they can give you what you need at the clinic.” He pauses, as if unsure of how to say what he has to say.
My foot wiggles from one side to the other as it always does when I’m nervous, making the bed shake.
“You shouldn’t . . .” He pauses again, then clears his throat, and it’s as if that gives him courage to continue. “Please, take a break from your job. At least six weeks, but if you can do more, please do. You need to give your body time to heal properly.”
I look at him, thinking how easy it is for him to tell me to stop eating. If I don’t die from starvation, I’ll die because of some illness. There’s no win-win in my situation. It’s the classic Catch-22.
He glances up from his papers, but as soon as our eyes meet he goes back to whatever he’s written there. Another cough to clear his throat, and more words come out of his mouth.
“Please use a condom every time you have sex, to protect yourself and those . . .” A deep breath. “Those that use your services.”
He’s pissing me off, but I can’t lash out at him because I’ll end up being accompanied out the door, so I clench my hands into tight fists. Fucking asshole. As if I wanted to sell my body, as if I wanted to be raped, as if I wanted this life instead of a life with Cammy.
The doctor glances at them and then takes a step back, probably worried I’ll clock him. If I could move, I’d probably have walked away. Right now, I’m stuck in this bed, and I have to listen to this prick.
“Sure, Doc,” I say, to end the conversation, hoping he’ll walk away. But it seems he’s not done yet.
“If you keep healing like this, we’ll be discharging you in a few days.”
My jaw nearly hits my lap at the realisation that my lucky star is sailing fast. What am I going to do if I have to live on the streets like this? I’ll be dead in a couple of days.
