When Tommy Met Jerry (BoyXBoy)

2. the peculiarities of working at a hospital 🏥

The SecretBusterService Status Update: three hours ago

Dear students of Califur High, 
It's officially been a month since we started school, and we've had two more deaths since then. We're starting to look less like an educational institute and more like a funeral home. The clashing smell of different flowers all together is simply nauseating. Maybe consider taking those flowers home with you at the end of the day instead of letting them rot in the school hallways? In other news, latest gossip points that Jerry Jones just got dumped. And by none other than Danielle Martinez! Jerry, if you're reading this- thank god you're not me, because I would have never lived this down. Being dumped is sad enough, but being dumped by someone like Danielle? Man O' Man, it's like going for a homerun against the weakest pitcher only to be striked out thrice!
Until next time Lions, 
Bond 007.

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My step-father works at a hospital as an anaesthesiologist. Since I am hoping to go to a med school once I finish whatever you call the torture I'm currently undergoing, my mom thought it would be a good thing to work at a hospital for a while. 

Thankfully, they do not let you do any work in the hospital without at least some qualifications, so the most strings my step-father could pull, were to get me behind the desk of the hospital pharmacy. 

Not entirely helpful in the 'exposure' my mom thought it would give me, but I have begun to get a hang of what drugs are prescribed for what ailments, so I take it as a win.

The worst fact is perhaps that I am not exactly paid. Although Dylan, my step father, gives me this regular stipend on his own at the end of each month, it isn't officially from the hospital. 

I wasn't qualified to do anything since I hadn't even finished my high school yet. Just allowed to shadow around, doing anything and everything for the hospital staff, usually bring medications from the pharmacy to the doctors, or even the patients, but I wasn't doing any real work. 

Dylan did tell me stories about his patients, however. He, of course, wasn't allowed to share any personal details, but he would discuss each of his case with me. He would ask me what I thought, he would tell me everything I did not know.

In short, Dylan is the best.

As I made my way through the list of medicines that I needed to pull out before Catherine, the actual pharmacist here, got back from delivering another round, I discarded my jacket on the floor. It was no longer damp from the coffee, but the stain would probably never leave, no matter how much my mom might scrub it. 

My thoughts went back to the 'annoyingly good-looking' (my sister's words, obviously) quarterback. We had been together in the same school for years, and there had been a point when we had actually been friends. He had adored Timothy, and would loudly proclaim to his family, and mine, how he would want to be like him when he grew up. 

The then golden boy-next-door, who was dumb enough now, to snort sugar thinking it was a distant relative of cocaine. He had had one functioning braincell and he had lost that to salvia.

Timothy and Jeremy had loved to gang up against me, and I would easily get all riled up. 

At 15 years old, my brother was ten years our senior, when my parents got a divorce. Things had not been going well for several years between them, and I had meant to be a peace offering that would reunite them. 

Except that my father only ever wanted to be reunited with his true love, the next bottle of tequila. He was never home, and when he was, he was drunk and abusive. He beat my mother so much once, that Timothy, at 12 years, had had to drive us to the hospital, nursing his own black eye. That is where my mother had met Dylan for the first time.