"I'm not a bad person."
"Yes you are, Troy. You are also more than that. You are a monster."
Everyone thought Troy was a monster. Even as a child. Davina felt the need to protect the broken. That was no different when she met Troy Otto.
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The hem of my tank top was still tucked into my bra and my pants were half way down when the door to the office swung open. In the doorway stood Troy. His naturally brooding features look somewhat surprised or maybe confused. He was really hard to read. This was the closest thing to emotion I have seen on his face yet.
"Blake, what is going on here?"
"I -uh-sterile gloves-uh-cuts-pants off-sutures-help" he stammers as if he was just caught with a hand in the cookie jar.
"Got it. Leave. She and I have a few things to talk about." He refers to me, without ever actually looking at me. I'm not sure if he is being respectful of the fact that I am standing in front of him only wearing underwear or if he is just awkward. Blake walks out, looking at his shoes and avoiding eye contact with his superior. Troy closes the door behind him and I kick off the jeans that are around my ankles before sitting on the desk.
I prop one bare leg up on the chair across from the desk and begin suturing my thigh. Troy doesn't say anything but walks over to me and sits in the chair next to the one I have my leg on. He pulls out a notepad and begins scribbling in it. He stops and looks up at me every once in a while, then continues writing. Still focused intensely on my suturing, I ask "What are you writing."
"Oh just observations. I've always been a bit of a nature boy. I just.... mark things down. It will matter later. Where'd you learn how to do that?" Glancing at the neat lines of sutures on my stomach and my thigh, then quickly to the forceps and needle I have in my gloved hands.
"My father." I said clipping the extra string before moving onto the next.
"Does it hurt? Was your father a doctor?"
"The pain doesn't bother me. No, he isn't. What are you planning on doing with me?"
He jots something down in his brown, leather bound notepad again and evades my question, "Interesting, you speak of him as if he is alive. What did he do? Was he with you? We didn't come across anyone else who- um- looked like you." His eyes lingering on the golden brown tone of my skin, driving his point home.
I stop suturing for a moment, and remember my dad. "Military. I don't know if he is still alive. Looked like me?"
"Yes, you know, not American." Oh, he was like Willy. Racist.
"I see." I glare back at him, staring into emotionless eyes.
"Branch?" He questions, puckering his lips.
"What?"
"The military. What branch?"
"Marines. Active duty, Artillery training and recruitment." He nodded, somehow pleased with my answer and proceeded to write more in his notepad.
"Good. It seems like some of that military mentality rubbed off on you. What did you do... before?"
"I guess you could say that. I got my stubbornness and good aim from him. I had one semester left of nursing school."
