They brought her at 3 a.m., during my shift. She seemed inadequate, either because of the pain or the consumed alcohol. Yes, she definitely smelled of alcohol. She did not recognize me. That wasn′t surprising; the last time we met was 11 years ago. A lot of time. And I have changed since then - now I'm bigger due to the daily workouts, bald and wear glasses. It's hard to believe that the youth looking like a rock star in those old photos is me.
However, I felt bad that she didn't recognize me. After all we were dating for whole 3 months. She was my first big love. I had fallen head over heels for her. I was dizzy with happiness ... until she jilted me for a wealthy bandit. I still hate her.
She hasn't changed much. She is 32 now, but has not lost her girlish charm. There are subtle wrinkles on her forehead and around the eyes that are somewhat desolate, and her waist is slightly heavier but otherwise she looks great. In her thick black hair I notice some white strings. I wonder if she knows about them. But this is nonsense; the important thing is that I hate her.
She is lying on a gurney, breathing heavily. The moisture in her eyes shines. Her left hand is clenched into a fist, the other hanging loosely beside the side bar. She winces occasionally. Her nails are panted black. Whorish color. I hate her.
She is wearing black leather shoes. They are simple but from expensive brand. Her pantyhose have floral motifs – whorish pantyhose. Her skirt is short but not provocatively short. Moderately whorish.
Under the laddered fabric at the left calf shows purplish swelling. The limb is slightly bent, visibly shortened. Broken. Both shin bones are crushed, but the surgery could be avoided, I know that from experience. She is in pain, but I do not care. Because I hate her.
"Doctor, give me some painkillers!" she groans and passes a trembling hand over her haggard face. However her makeup is not smeared, expensive makeup.
"My colleagues must have given you. You'll have to bear it. By the way, have you been drinking?"
"Well ... not much," she says, then looks at me timidly, like a beaten animal.
"I understand," I say. She deserves that. Let her suffer. Such as her ... I just ... hate her, that's it.
She is crying. Her chin trembles pitifully. But I'm not impressed at all. Without much haste I sit behind the desk and write the document with which she should go to the X-ray department.
The orderly rolls her out without bothering to be as careful as not to crash the stretcher in the doorframe. I sit and wait. There are no other patients. Dead time. I go outside to smoke a cigarette. I can't stop thinking about the most hateful human being in the world. The pain from the long-lasting separation fills my soul. Is it normal to hate this woman so much?
I return in the office. They had brought her in. I look at the pictures on the computer. Two "clean" fractures. No need of surgery, fortunate bitch. The nasty people often have luck. Damn it! I hate her! I want her suffer!
I start doing my job. I cut the pantyhose with scissors and expose her leg. I remember every curve; I have caressed and kissed it many times. I disinfect the swelling because the skin is damaged.
.... There is more of this story ...