Page 75 of The Secretary Volume II

I feel another cut—this one deeper.Then pressure.Then a long, dragging pull.

“Nice,” says the student with the needle.“That suture held.”

“You’re doing great,” someone says—not to me, of course.To him.

I feel every single knot.Every tug.Every burn of thread against raw flesh.

A new student steps up.My mouth is still open.My jaw is locked.My entire face feels like it’s being unstitched and put back together by amateurs.

The suction keeps going.So does the stitching.

So does the pain.

Blood fills my mouth but is suctioned away before I can taste it.But not all of it.

A nurse snaps off her gloves and immediately puts on a new pair.“She’s not clotting!”

“I hate it when this happens,” the doctor says.

She doesn’t sound as worried as she should be.

My eyes are open.

I see everything.

I feel a thread pass through my gumline.Something tugs.Another stitch.Then another.

The doctor presses a gauze square into the wound and holds it there, like she’s putting a stamp on a letter.

The light goes whiter.The room narrows.I feel myself slipping, but I don’t go under.

She hums while she works.Something bouncy, like a children’s song.

I try again to move.Try to make noise.

Nothing.

“You said nitrous,” I want to scream.“You said local.”

But the suction tube in my cheek pulls the thought away.

The doctor lifts another tool.“She feels some tugging,” she says.“But not pain.”

I feel everything.

One of the students leans closer.“Is it supposed to be that red?”

“She’s reacting beautifully,” the doctor chirps.“Mark that.”

They stitch me like they’re sewing a hem.Tight and efficient.One student asks about suture tension.Another films it on a tablet.

“You’ve got this,” someone says—again, not to me, but to the student with his fingers in my mouth.“Just hang in there.”

I try to swallow.Can’t.

Try to blink.Too slow.

The gloves come off.The tray clears.