A wave of pain as he jabs the hyperdermic syringe into the skin around the outside of my knee.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I say through gritted teeth. He smiles and pushes the needle deeper under my knee cap, looks me in the eyes and presses the plunger. My back arches and sweats. A volcano erupts in my belly. My eyes roll up.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I shout. “I hate you.”
He raises an eybrow, nods to his diminutive sidekick and says.
“Administer the painkiller.”
The sidekick bends out of view from my couch.
“I thought I’d had the fucking painkiller.” I say.
The sidekick returns from the cupboard with two dayglo yellow tennis balls and puts them into my hands. I squeeze.
He removes the needle then with a marker starts exing around the kneecap. Further entrance points.
“How many more.” I say angrily.
“Just a prick.”
And in goes another loaded needle.
“UHHH.” I grunt.
“That was from the belly.” He observes.
“In New Scientist,” I quaver on the word Scientist. ”I read they found that people,” I lurch on People, ”who swear can hold their hands in ice water twice as long as those who keep quiet.” I rise on “quiet.”
I say to distract him or me; or someone.
“Hmmm.” He says, “and another one.” He jabs another one in surpressing a sphinx smile.
“Fuck.” I shout. “That’s the purpose of swearing. To diminish pain.” I gasp.
“Is it working.”
“Fuck you. Can you give me a breather.” I almost beg.
“I find its better to get them over with.” He says and cooly plunges in on the inside of my knee cap.
“RRRR.”
“I’ll scare your other patients.” I say.
He turns to look at me in his blue scrubs.
“I don’t have any other patients.”