Heart Over Mind

1. Ela

The door to the locker room opens just as I turn to the last number of my padlock. I tear it off and begin sifting through my clothes, hoping to find a clean pair of shorts before whoever walked in can get a good enough look at me. It was only minutes ago that I stripped down to my underwear - a decision I'm now regretting. But in my defense, I didn't expect anyone else to be here. It's five in the morning, and most med students don't switch their shifts until around seven or eight, so there was no way for me to have foreseen this happening.

I want to half-blame myself for being so careless; I don't particularly like being caught off-guard almost naked in the student locker room, so I've made it a habit to always have my clothes in-hand when I undress. But I spent the last forty minutes being thrown up on by a woman who's now dead, so I can't say I don't understand why I was so quick to get them off me 

I look at the pile of clothes and vomit and wonder why I haven't moved them yet. They're balled up, and smell like the insides of a stranger and my perfume. Rose, marshmallow, sandalwood, and insides.

I sigh, debate just tossing them here instead of taking them back to the washroom. They're hospital scrubs, so they've more than likely been covered in all kinds of fluids, but it still feels wrong, letting the last parts of a woman who doesn't exist anymore be washed away. But maybe being washed away is better than being thrown out. I'm not really sure. I'm not good at making the tough decisions - not the ones like this, anyway.

Just as I'm leaning over to grab them, the other person in the room grunts. He's a guy. And he's been here for at least three minutes now, so why hasn't he said one word or even opened his locker? Does he even have a locker? Is he even a student? It's five in the morning, and I'm at an end of the hospital that no one really ventures to, so if he isn't a student, this could be really bad.

I exhale quietly, not wanting to alarm him or myself, and unlatch my purse. It's stuffed with too many things - the biggest thing being a stuffed ram my dad got me a few months back. I squeeze it and frown. It's an odd thing to do, I know, considering the only reason my hand's stuffed in my backpack is to find my pepper spray, but I can't help it. Simple moments are easy to overwhelm someone who is easily overwhelmed.

When I finally find it, I grasp it by the keychain ring it's attached to and hold onto the base like it's the only thing separating me from life and death. I actually have no idea how to use pepper spray. The only reason I even keep it around is because my brother convinced me to. I never thought I'd have to use it. I did read the instructions a few months back out of boredom, though, and I have a pretty decent memory, so I'm pretty sure I could take the guy if he tried anything. At least enough to hold him off while I run.

That thought fills me with no relief, but I still nod my head, hoping that murmuring to myself will help me feel better. This isn't even that bad. I could take him if I needed to. He won't know what hit him.

When I say the last sentence aloud, the guy drops something. It hits the floor, sends a soft echo across the room. I don't know if he's afraid of me, considering I just said I wanted to hit him, or if he just realized that I'm catching on that he could be someone malicious. This could go either way.

I hear his footsteps growing louder as he grows closer. I feel smart for catching on, but stupid as hell for staying here as long as I have. I guess this is how I handle my fight-or-flight response, though. I always thought I'd be more of a fighter if the situation called for it, but I guess I'm not.

I haul myself a little into my locker, trying to figure out how I could escape if he comes any closer. The last thing I want to do is run out into the hallway of the place I work in my nearly transparent underwear, but I won't not do that if I have to. I close my eyes and brace myself before the guy speaks.