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Luckily, the idea of someone thinking of Conner Gilroy—the guy who’s fucked so many women that people use his name as a goddamned sexual verb—as a gentleman is so laughable that I forget the dickhead comment rolling around in my head.
“Get security to walk you to your car after shift,” I tell her because Rich the Asshole Orderly didn’t look too happy that she turned him down and I know he has a hard time taking no for an answer.
Shutting the door before she has a chance to tell me to mind my own business, I hobble my way to my bathroom where I begrudgingly toss a couple of oxys down my throat before stepping into the shower. I hate taking them but if I want to walk upright and not feel like every pore and muscle fiber in my body is on fire, I don’t have a choice.
Twenty minutes later, the opioids and hot water have worked their magic, and I’m staring at myself in the mirror and feeling like a fucking fraud because I don’t recognize the man staring back at me. Because I know what’s under the uniform isn’t really a man at all.
Because I’m something less now.
And knowing it makes me want to go find Rich the orderly and ram my fist down his throat just so I can feel something other than this yawning black pit of disgusted self-loathing chewing on my guts. So I can feel like me for just a few minutes.
Like I said, I thought putting the uniform back on would be different.
I thought it’d be a relief.
I thought it’d make me feel better.
More like myself.
I was wrong.