𝘿𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡 𝙄𝙣𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙛𝙩 - 𝙔𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙍𝙀 𝙓 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍 ✓

10.

━━━

"I mean, you are married, right?" nurse Bridget's voice drills into me painfully, my face beginning to lightly twitch whenever she opens her mouth. As casual as I try to keep my friendships with co-workers, I hate to say that she is getting on my nerves more and more. Her sexual incident doesn't help either. 

"Yes, I am, what does that have to do with anything?" I question in slight defence, her body naturally turning to face me as I move around the Lounge Hall, sweeping up the excess trash from the Christmas celebration. "Well, I'm not trying to be rude or anything, it's just I've noticed that you two seem to be a little... you know?" She insinuates, ultimately being rude. My face contorts into slight disgust, but I hide it as I sweep. 

"Uh...Huh..." I drag my words in doubt and casualty, and it's clear she doesn't like how I'm not taking her seriously. I mean, how can I? she's in a very bad spot without even knowing it, and the smeared lipstick she's got going on is just fuel to the fire.

 "I'm being serious, Y/N." 

"And I am too, but it's not your place to tell me how to do my job," I state in defence, not in a necessarily mean way, but in a stern, lecturing tone. Her eyebrows raise and knit, my unexpected defence digging under her skin quite clearly. A ball of frustration flames inside my stomach and even though I'm struggling to contain it with all of my might, I resist. 

"that's the thing Y/N, you're not doing your job, and this is why I'm bringing this up...!" Her voice slowly raises as she physically grows more and more tense. From the corner of my eye, I can already see how her jaw is clenched unbearably tightly, the wrinkles of her forehead poking out from her lifted eyebrows. 

"I mean, I could say the same to you, Bridget." 

"...Excuse me...?!" She scoff's, the way her emotions paint her face never ceases to surprise me. I've never seen her talk with her hands so dramatically until today. 

I pause, straightening up as I grip the broom tightly with one hand, other hand on my hip. I sigh, taking in a deep, tired breath. "I'm not trying to start a fight with you, Bridget. But until I see you actually hold a therapy circle or lead any activities, don't try to tell me how to do my job. I've worked in places worse than you'd ever know, I don't need you telling me I'm wrong when I know I'm not." 

She stares with frozen shock, and I only pick the broom out, beginning to head out. I'm too tired to deal with her anymore. I mean, I shouldn't have to, but it feels inevitable. Hopefully she'll suck it up and just move on. 

━━━

Home is one of the only places that for others, is a comfort. For me, it can go either way, from comfort, to hell. The weeks have been passing slower and slower, at least that's how it feels. I've taken holiday break. Just for a few weeks. It'll give me time to recharge and prepare for next year, and primarily to process all that's happened these very few months. 

From 8 till around 5 have been my comfort hours at home, my husband being at work during those hours. It's a little annoying that even when he's gone, reminders of him still lie within the house. Like the holes in the wall's, the smashed plate remanence that's been left on the floor uncleaned for the past week, things like that. I could put a photo frame around one of the wall punctures and name it something along the lines of 'The Male Ego', and probably make thousands.

It's just frustrating at this point. I know the way it's explained seems underwhelming, but when you deal with this in the long term, it's something you can get used to quite easily. I'll patch the wall punctures up shortly. 

I lean against my kitchen counter, the empty home almost swallowing me in its loneliness. It's so quiet, uncomfortably quiet. By my coffee mug is the old divorce papers sprawled out across the counter, untouched, unsigned. I place my mug over the paper's, a coffee ring soaking the pages. Their months old, my deadbeat husband wont willingly sign them. I'll sort it out when I can. 

But the thing is, when I think of my husband, I also begin to think of Stanislav. His words repeat in my mind every morning and night, like poison. It's the worst feeling in the world, but I hate to say that when I catch myself not thinking about him, I miss the repeatability of it. Just a little. Maybe it's because it distracts me from actual responsibilities, who knows...

Maybe it's his voice that glues itself to my brain, or his physical features? He really doesn't look like anyone I've ever seen, nor would I have ever believed he would be in a psych ward if I didn't work with him. He really doesn't look like anyone I've seen. 

I keep on repeating that, like I'm trying to be a faithful wife. I would like to think I would be, I would. I know I would be. If my husband wasn't a horrible deadbeat, I would be. But he is, so I don't think me thinking of another man in an attractive sense is worth feeling ashamed for in that context. But I really, really, do not want to be anything like Nurse Bridget. I've seen the way she interacts with male patients; I know how provocative she attempts to be with them, it's anything but a secret. 

I'm not like that, I'm not her. I'm allowed to think that yes, Stanislav is an attractive man, without the added baggage nurse Bridget would've most likely placed if she were me. It ends at the platonic wall, that's it. 

━━━

The weeks pass day by day, my first day back shortly arriving. It reminds me of my first-first day, buttoning my nurse uniform up, smoothing the wrinkles in the mirror, running my fingers through my locks to sooth any knots. The light catches my wedding ring, a ring I've grown to shortly despise. I slip it off hesitantly, placing it in my ring box. 

My hand feels too bare now. I replace the wedding ring with a different ring on a different finger, easing the odd feeling of having it off. I lean close to the mirror, cleaning my makeup with my finger, making sure everything looks okay. 

I purse my lips, moving them against each other. My mind flickers to Nurse Bridget's lipstick. I stopped wearing lipstick as soon as I got married, that sounds like such an old-person thing to say. I'm turning 23 this year. It's a new year. 

I sigh, the wave of guilt hitting me. I feel like I've wasted my time trying to shift myself for my husband. He hated lipstick. Any lipstick, pink, red, brown hue's, any. My eye's move from the mirror and to my makeup, and I take an unused lipstick out. I never got to try it, unfortunately. 

The colour is a darker red shade, a maroon. It's beautiful, it's bold. taking the lid off, I twist the lipstick up and begin to run it across my lips, coating them and cleaning the edges carefully. It really is bold, but it's a new year, who cares? I love the way it looks against my hair and skin. 

The lipstick glosses and gleams against the light as I slowly move my head in the mirror's reflection, admiring each side. Placing the lipstick in my bag, I check the time and bid my leave for a first day of work this new year. 

━━━