Little Doc Fiction: Why the heck is she writing fiction?

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    littledoc
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    Dr. Robert Butcher stretched his titanic length legs and leaned back on a relatively tiny office chair. The beat down chair actually was considered normal sized for office furniture, but Butcher wasn’t a normal sized man. The chair creaked in agony as the second year resident attempted to force it to proxy a bed.

    He’d been up for two days straight and he’d be darned if he wasn’t going to use the only ten minutes he had to spare to get some form of sleep. Even with the head of chair digging into his scapula’s, Butcher closed his eyes.

    Yet, it happened. The call of the evil-spawned-by-Satan device that his superiors had the audacity to call the ‘Love Pager,’ beeped like a freakin’ Banshee. His eyes popped open. There must be some cosmic universal law that states if a resident closes his eyes to get an ounce of sleep that the pager must go off. Heaven forbid, he actually be allowed the tinest morsel of REM sleep to keep him from accidently killing a patient with a wrong set of orders.

    Rubbing his eyelids around as if they weren’t connected to his skull, he removed the pager from his green scrubs’ pocket to look at the message that flashed on it. “Mr. Johnson needs an order for Ambien.”

    Butcher dropped his head back with a groan. The nurses hated him. They had a vendetta. He yelled at one of them last July for something stupid, which he entirely regretted after he had done it… because even now he still was paying the price. For instance, he knew better than to retire to the call room, because the number of pages per hour would be worse. Never tick off a nurse.

    The smell of coffee wafting out of his pores, Butcher scratched his soft belly. He’d earned the Winnie the Poo sized belly in surviving the last four years of hell formerly called medical school. The belly juggled under his large fingers. Man, he needed to exercise.

    Smacking his large palms against his thighs, Butcher managed to get his six foot seven frame to stand up without tipping over. Tired as all get out, he was half tempted to hook up an IV bag of caffeine to his arm before answering that page.

    “Don’t worry, I already took care of it.” A tired woman’s voice said from behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. The two of them had been on the same call schedule ever since she started her internship last July. She was the type of intern that you wanted to teach: she didn’t whine and complain. She didn’t act butch, and she always had your back.

    Butcher sat back down, ignoring the sobbing of the office chair. He stretched himself out again and looked at his short colleague. “So you took on the pack of hienas. Did they try to gnaw off your leg?”

    Dr. Sara Dawson frowned at him to the crinkling of the freckles on her nose. It was a look that said ‘Call them that and I will beat you like steam roller.’ For a five foot six petite little sniff of a doctor, she certainly had developed a love for the she-devil nurses and they for her. Yeah, sure they liked her; she had that sweet, complimentary thing going for her. He had to role his eyes when he’d catch them talking about their loser husbands to her… as if she had any advice for that issue, Dawson had never been married. Must be the female bonding thing that kept them from paging her like crazy ex-lovers on speed.

    “Don’t be such a punk.” She sat on a chair beside him and massaged her own shoulder.

    Butcher laughed at her. Dawson wasn’t much to look at when she’d been up for 38 hours straight. Greasy brown hair pulled back in a dying poneytail, pits that sang the star spangled banner, a nose so red that Rudolf would be jealous, and gia-normous bags under her blood-shot green eyes, she sometimes made him feel tempted to sing, “Isn’t she lovely” just to get a rise out of her.

    But he enjoyed her just the same: she talked straight and he would be beaten by a pack of old ladies’ bags before he would ever admit to her, how amazing she looked when she cleaned up.

    “I’m concerned.” She furrowed her brow.

    “What? The nurses don’t have enough donuts?” He smirked.

    She offered him her censored version of the middle finger, which was flashing her ring finger. “I can take you.” She threatened.

    “Bring it, pipsqueak.”

    “No, seriously. I’ve got a bad feeling that something’s going to happen.” Her normally pale skin went paler.

    Butcher’s smile dropped. There were only a few things worse than being a surgical resident named Butcher, and one of them was when Dawson got one of her ‘voodoo magic-Harry Potter’ warning feelings.

    Sad thing was that even he, an agnostic, was beginning to believe in God after being around her for less than a year. The rational mind dictated that these strange occurrences where only coincidences, but Dawson’s “coincidental” track record of her getting a feeling that something was about to happen and that thing actually happening was 100%. He felt his heart start to race. Her religion was beginning to rub off on him, and he didn’t like it.

    Despite his logic, nagging at him that there were no such things as the Holy Ghost, he felt strongly inclined to believe her. He glanced at the PA system, half expecting a code to be announced.

    She closed her eyes and silently prayed in front of him. Feeling like he was going to jump out of his skin, Butcher looked around to see if anyone was watching her pray. One thing he didn’t understand was that she wasn’t embarrassed to pray in public. He waited for her to finish. She opened her eyes to look at him. It was “The Look.” The look that in all logic should never be on the face of a first year resident. It was a look of pure confidence and seriousness… some would call it, absolute faith.

    “We need to get the generators on,” she said in a direct tone. “…now.”

    Butcher rubbed his stubble to keep her from noticing him begin to sweat. The power in her expression meant only one thing: something big was about to go down. Not good.

    —-to be continued—-

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