Superheroes are Stupid

03

Friday nights are for people to meet with friends at a bar, grab a fancy dinner with their loved ones, or chill at home and binge on ice cream while watching Netflix.

Friday nights for me tend to be quite different when I'm working a late shift. But this particular one is turning out to be the weirdest one I've ever experienced for a few reasons:

Firstly, it's been ten minutes since I entered my apartment after a 48-hour shift and I haven't passed out on the couch. Yet.

Secondly, there's a guy in my house. It's been a long time since that's happened, mainly because I'm glued to my job more than eighty hours a week.

Thirdly, said guy is Strong Man, San Francisco's newest superhero, whom I think may have cried a little when he got cut by my mugger's knife. Not to mention, his face turned white when I told him he needed a tetanus shot and a few stitches. I'm hoping it's just the bad lighting from the street lamps that made me see things, but I don't think it's possible to un-hear the whimper than escaped him when I told him he couldn't leave untreated. I mean, if he got an infection trying to save me, I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

"A-Are you absolutely sure this is necessary?" the trembling hero stammers, backing away when I step towards him with the needle in hand, as if I'm the villain here. I'm a doctor, for goodness' sake; I'm the last person who would deliberately hurt him. Although, I have to say the idea is starting to sound tempting.

And if I were a supervillain, my supervillain name could be "The Needle" and it would still sound ten times cooler than fricking Strong Man.

"Don't worry. You'll be fine after I disinfect your wound, give you the shot and stitch you up." I resort to adopting the voice I use around young children in the hospital, hoping it will coax this big baby out of running away or putting this off until he actually gets an infection. Which, I promise, will put him in a bigger world of hurt than this little needle in my hand.

"How many needles is that going to take?" He continues to back away, and he visibly startles when his back hits the wall.

I step closer, eyeing his wound. "Not many. Just three stitches should be fine."

If at all possible, his face turns paler than it already was. Cold sweat slides down his neck, and his breathing grows faster. He takes a few seconds to compose himself, before swallowing the lump in his throat and asking in a more collected voice, "I have to do it, right?"

"Either do it now or get hospitalised and have more needles stuck into you when you get an infection and a fever, or worse."

The threat succeeds in making him cave. He allows me to get closer, and I tell him to relax his injured arm. Lest he screams and my neighbours think I'm committing murder in my apartment, I give him one of my couch cushions to squeeze with his non-injured arm. The tetanus shot goes in before he can even settle into his constipated, squinting face and clenched teeth.

"That was fast," he remarks.

"Yep. Now for the anaesthetic."

"How many needles is that?"

"I can do two."

"TWO?"

"That way, you won't feel a thing when I do your stitches," I assure him again, and also silently praying that he won't flinch from the pain and proceed to punch me through my television.

Thankfully, I emerge from the ordeal unscathed, though I can't say the same for Strong Man, who might have shed a few tears in the process and complained about feeling more than a little nauseous right before the second needle went in.