“Enough of the victim routine.” Preston turned his back to me, issuing an order that echoed like a death sentence. “Kill the epidural pump. Restrain her extremities. We are proceeding with a forced extraction.”
“Doctor Pierce, this is a catastrophic violation of clinical protocol! She will code!” the assisting nurse screamed, stepping forward to block his path.
“If she codes, the medical liability is entirely mine! Hold her down!” Preston roared, the sheer weight of his arrogance flooding the room. Intimidated by his God-complex, three nurses exchanged horrified glances before pinning my shoulders and thighs to the table with vice-like grips.
Through my blurring vision and the blue fabric of Preston’s gown, I caught Khloe standing behind him. The corner of her mouth twitched upward into a fleeting, victorious smirk.
At that exact second, I heard something deep inside my chest fracture permanently. It wasn’t my pelvis. It was the seven-year illusion of a partnership. My final shred of faith in his medical oath dissolved into ash.
Without the anesthetic buffer, raw agony rocketed up my nerve endings, detonating in my cerebral cortex. I stared blindly at the massive surgical light above me. I felt the icy rush of the Pitocin hitting my bloodstream. If I didn’t stop it, I would bleed out on this table.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg. A decade of absorbing life and death in the trauma bay granted me a terrifying, crystalline clarity amidst the torture. I channeled every ounce of humiliation, betrayal, and primal survival instinct into my right arm.
Crack.
