I assume he’s still mad that I flew off the handle after being asked “Are you sure you hit a wall?” for the tenth time. I know what he’s thinking, and he can fuck off. “You have a metacarpal fracture,” he informs me. “English, please?” I mumble. I’ve calmed, for the most part, but I’m still beyond pissed-off by his questioning and hard stares. Working in the busiest clinic in London, he has surely seen worse than me, but he still glares at me every chance he gets. “Bro-ken,” he says in a slow voice. “Your hand is broken, and you’ll need to wear a cast for a few weeks. I’ll give you a prescription to help manage the pain, but you’ll just have to wait it out, wait for the bones to knit back together.” I don’t know which is more laughable, the idea of wearing a cast or that he seems to think I need help managing my pain. There’s nothing that any pharmacist can dole out that’ll help with my pain. Unless they’ve got a selfless blonde with blue-gray eyes on their shelves, they’ve got nothing for me.
What do You think about After Ever Happy (After #4)?
