Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
He turns back toward his desk and begins shuffling papers around, signaling the end of the lecture. As students start filing out of the room, I feel a strong urge to stay back, to talk to Jason, to understand more. I observe as Eli and Tabitha leave and disappear into the hallway.
The room is almost empty when Jason finally looks up from his task, surprise visible in his eyes. “Still here?” he asks with a small smile.
“Yes,” I answer, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I just…”
God, Angie, get a grip.
I clear my throat. “Your words really struck a chord with me.”
It’s not a lie. Jason has a respect for the learning of anatomy that I find…interesting. I never wanted to dissect a cadaver, but now I’m rethinking that stance.
Not like I have a choice if I want to get through med school anyway.
Jason’s smile widens a fraction before he moves away from his desk and leans against it casually, crossing his arms.
“Medicine isn’t easy,” he says, “and I won’t lie to you or sugarcoat it. It’s going to test you in ways you can’t even imagine.” He gives me a sarcastic laugh. “Even those of you who choose never to wield a scalpel. Even psychiatrists.”
Chapter Four
Jason
Angie turns and walks out of the room.
Yeah, my bad.
I shouldn’t have made that snide remark about psychiatry. This woman obviously has a calling, and who am I to try to change her attitude?
Just because psychiatry didn’t work for me doesn’t mean it doesn’t work for millions of others.
She mentioned an aunt of hers.
For a moment I think of calling her back in, getting the name of her aunt, looking into her work.
Then I realize something.
I don’t give a rat’s ass who her aunt is or what she may have accomplished in her life as a psychiatrist.
I’m simply looking for excuses to pull Angie back into the room with me.
God, she’s fucking beautiful. A classic beauty, with nearly perfect features—large and long-lashed eyes, high cheekbones, full pink lips. Her figure…
Long luscious legs, broad shoulders, succulent tits.
Her nipples were showing through her T-shirt.
Every guy in the room noticed.
I didn’t like them looking at her.
But I’m a teacher. I’m her teacher. Trying anything with her would be unethical. Besides, she can’t even be twenty-five years old. And she’s probably younger, if she went straight from college to med school. That would make her only twenty-two or twenty-three—at least a twelve-year age gap between us.
Plus… She stands for everything I hate about medicine. Psychiatry.
Psychiatry fucked me over. Cost me a lot more than anyone knows.
I clench my fist around the pen in my hand, a futile attempt to control the storm inside me. It snaps in half, blue ink splattering across my hand and the desk.
Shit.
I grab a tissue to clean up the mess.
I look up. The door to the classroom is still ajar. I watch Angie retreat, her brown ponytail swaying against the small of her back, until she disappears from view. It somehow feels like losing a part of me—a part I didn’t even know existed until today.
The silence in the room is overwhelming, each tick of the clock on the wall echoing in my ears.
Hmm.
Angie’s voice clouds my mind. Her words. About psychiatry being important, about it being a way to heal people. Even though I know she’s wrong about it in my case, maybe she’s right overall. Maybe I’m being too harsh.
Until an image slams back into my head.
My own experience with psychiatry, the countless sessions spent on a leather couch, dissecting my dreams and fears, only to be left more confused and lost than before. The constant popping of pills that dulled my senses but never soothed my soul. And the loss…
No, psychiatry didn’t help me.
It only made things worse.
I rub my forehead with my ink-stained hand, hoping to ease the headache that’s beginning to pulse in my temples.
Angie’s face flashes in my mind once more—her eyes filled with conviction, her lips curved into a defiant smile. I can’t help but feel drawn to her. Something about her passion for psychiatry captivates me, regardless of my own contempt for it.
As much as I hate to admit it, Angie has sparked something in me.
Something I haven’t felt in a long time.
I sigh, leaning back in my chair and massaging my temples. The headache is only getting worse, but there’s a part of me that likes the pain. It’s an annoying throb that just feels real.
Teaching anatomy lab was certainly never my calling.
But it’s what I’m stuck with now.
A surgeon who can’t cut.
A surgeon who can’t cut is like a bird that can’t fly, a fish that can’t swim. It’s a paradox, an anomaly. I let out a bitter laugh.
I open the box and stare at my scalpel—a memento from an era when I had the power to heal with my hands. I close my eyes and remember the OR. The metallic smell of blood, the steady beep of the heart monitor, and the adrenaline rush that came with every cut.