choonxie

[choonxie]

"Doctora Cris?"

It's Nathan who turns to the sound of the voice first between them, with Cris only slowly lifting her head a few moments later, mouth still full of pancit canton. "Y-Yes po?" she manages to stutter out after hurriedly swallowing her food and downing a few gulps of water.

"I knew I recognized you!" the old lady exclaims in delight, hobbling closer to their table. "Do you still remember me? I am the patient you saw last at the community clinic the other day. The one with chest pain." She points a finger to her substernal area, nodding again while tears forming in her eyes.

"Ay, opo, Ma'am, I remember," Cris smiles, too, leaning in closer. "How are you now?"

"I'm doing okay," her patient replies earnestly. "I am still waiting for the laboratory results, but the free medicines you gave helped so much. Our family does everything we can to get by, but life is difficult."

"That's okay," Cris assures. "Just make sure to take them daily, monitor your blood pressure at home, then come back once you have your results. We can adjust your medications by then po."

"Opo, Doctora. Thank you so much!"

Cris is still waving happily as the old lady walks away, her eyes meeting Nathan's warm ones when she turns back. She immediately flushes in embarrassment, looking away as she twirls another forkful of pancit to distract herself. "W-What?"

"Just thinking of how proud of I am of you," Nathan grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly too as he does. "You've come a really long way from a year ago. It just makes me really happy."

"I..." Cris' usual retort immediately dies on her lips as she considers the weight and gravity of Nathan's words. Back then, she never thought she'd be able to even graduate from medical school. Yet here she is now, on her last rotation as a senior intern, a few months closer to finally being a licensed doctor.

She smiles fondly at the thought, gently putting down her fork and facing Nathan once more. "I have all of you to thank for that. Really."

Nathan reaches across the table, taking Cris' hand in his and caressing her knuckles. "You did, and still are, doing your best. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you." Cris moves her hand to thread hers and Nathan's fingers together in a tight squeeze. "I am, too."

.

Based on Ghost of a Feeling by Celestine Trinidad.

[choonxie]

-

OUT NOW: Insignia Drabbles Volume 4: Mythical Beings of Asia

I also have a (clutch) drabble in here, entitled Alay (Tagalog for “Offering”). It presents a familiar scenario among many Chinese families, ours included.

Get your copy now!

[choonxie]

I became a hematologist because I thought it would grant me unlimited access to the blood bank. 

I should have become a pathologist instead. 

And now the actual pathologist is looking at me strangely as I all but snatch the blood bag from his hands while drooling.

[choonxie]

about me

Hello, and welcome to my blog!

I’m Therese, a doctor and (sometimes frustrated) writer from the Philippines. And no, Choon’s not my actual last name.

I've always loved writing since I was young. I'm no professional, but I really enjoy what I do because it helps me destress from the medical life.

I mainly pen fan fiction in my spare time, but I’ve also dabbled in some original pieces, which are archived in this blog. There’s not a lot in here right now, but I hope to be able to have more time to write some things in lighter weeks, longer pieces in the future, and ultimately a book (or two?) of my own.

I also like to read whenever I can. I don’t have a favorite genre, since the kind of stuff I read is all over the place. I do keep a list of book recs, though, so maybe I’ll figure that out as I go (and grow). For now, I want to finish everything written by the authors featured in Bungou Stray Dogs, so there’s that. (Props to bsd-bibliophile for this massive collection; you’re a true hero.)

Other stuff I like include anime/manga, some K-pop, eating and taking long walks. (I promise I’m a lot less boring than that, haha.)

I’ll probably reply to you as @cyanoscarlet on here because that’s my main blog.

You can also find me on BlueSky (already closed my Twitter).

Feel free to send me a Ko-fi, too!

[choonxie]

(not) a date

Part of the Twitter request series, first edition.

@niconiconina’s prompt: A high school / college reunion. (x)

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"This isn't a date," you tell yourself for the twentieth time before the mirror, dressed in a baby blue blouse and white jeans. You are not dolling up, and you are not trying to impress anyone.

Deep down, you know a part of that isn't true, of course. Still fools you enough, though.

You only happened to pass by your old high school today on the way home. The detour was a nice change of pace, and colonial houses were refreshing after weeks of high-rise buildings. You even took pictures of everything.

He caught you taking a selfie with that old mural you did.

So did your four other friends. It made you flush in embarrassment, because there they go again, teasing the two of you with each other, like the good old times. He got better at taking it like a champ, while you still flounder badly and sputter admonishments you don't mean.

You always were the Team Mom of your quintet. Your "kids" often asked when they would finally have a "Dad", and you answered in the negative all the time.

Earlier, too, they asked you again. This time, he volunteered himself without any prompting. You wanted to crawl into a manhole.

One thing led to another, and before long, the six of you agreed to meet at the new bar that had just opened downtown— how much of the area has changed after you graduated, you wondered.

That's one major reason, in any case. The other is that you miss your friends. Right.

By the time you put an end to your musings, you've already done your hair and make-up, and for a moment, you imagine him whispering in your ear, "You look lovely tonight."

Oh, come on.

You put away your pretty tubes and palettes at once before you can think of anything else.

The bar is located at the northern end of the plaza, just opposite the public park— in the "heart of the city", as advertised. It used to be a small but popular hole-in-the-wall eatery that most of you frequented during after-school hours, but time goes on, as does life in the area.

How on earth they had managed to get a permit while being within a five-hundred meter radius from a conservative high school is beyond you, but its existence makes your friends happy, so you don't say anything.

He's smiling, too, nodding at their antics, and for a moment, your eyes meet.

"You look nice," he says. It's not the exact phrase from your addled imagination, but it makes your heart flutter anyway.

The inside is all cozy and warm and reminds you of late night conversations in a time when mobile phones were not yet a thing. Nostalgia is everywhere, from the carefully-curated news clippings and the many old records on display— some of your favorite songs from prom night, you realize.

You observe him surreptitiously. Does he remember, too?

"It's not a date," you stop yourself at once. You are only imagining that wistful glance at you.

The evening goes into full swing soon enough, as cocktails are ordered and downed faster than the speed of light— or is it more of you unable to keep up, head spinning after your first drink?

You really shouldn't have gotten whiskey on the rocks, in all honesty, but he chose that, too, so.

He seems to be holding his liquor well, you think to yourself, sipping slowly from your own glass. Meanwhile, your friends have moved on from martinis to gin and vodka, giggling and laughing and crying as you collectively pore over old photographs of Senior Year for hours on end.

Another twinge of nostalgia, as you spot yourself in mid-jump, about to spike. Volleyball has always been your favorite sport, and you even earned an MVP title from it. You didn't join the varsity, however; your parents didn't allow it.

You had cried on his shoulder then.

The bitterness has all but gone away with time, and you can barely manage continuous tossing drills now, but you remember the words he told you that night: "Maybe He has a better plan for you."

And, indeed, He did, as you ended up in the best national university and graduated with flying colors, landing a lucrative job at a multinational company soon after passing the board exam. Everything has been going really well lately, and you are happy and satisfied.

Not quite, you realize now, as you look up into his eyes, all your past feelings resurfacing.

You had planned to confess your love on graduation day. You had a letter written and all, twice as long as your valedictory address. All you needed to do was meet him in the corridor and hand it to him.

You found him with another classmate instead, sharing a tender kiss in the afternoon sun, as their gowns fluttered happily in the air.

The memory burns into your mind mercilessly like a searing flame.

You swore to forget him that very moment, tearing your letter into shreds and letting them fly away with the broken pieces of your paper heart.

It's why this— now— isn't a date. Right.

You are soon finished with the whiskey, and proceed to order another shot of hard liquor whose name you can't pronounce, but he suddenly intervenes, getting you both water instead.

"W-Why did you do that," you ask him, more than a little contempt slipping into your voice.

He smiles that same smile from that night. "I believe you've had enough for a night." And you really, really, really hate to admit it, but he is right.

You sniffle in disappointment, trying hard not to cry. Not to be vulnerable. Why must alcohol be such a problematic master?

You fail, of course.

He catches you as you fall on his shoulder, letting your tears stain the sleeve of his dress shirt. You mumble incoherent things you know you will regret in the morning, as he gently strokes your back the way he did that night, all those years ago.

"I love you," you manage to say between hiccups— probably the only thing you will remember having said by tomorrow, and will be embarrassed for it even after six months have passed.

For now, though, it is how you feel, and you let it overflow like a broken dam weakened by force and time.

And he responds in kind, with a wistful smile and sharp regret that gently cuts your heart in half like fine scissors to new paper: "I do, too. I'm really sorry."

You wish he had said "I know" instead.

You never take that detour again after that night. You feel lighter inside, like a huge weight has been lifted off your chest. Everyone thinks you have come into full bloom, and you acknowledge this with a smile and a wave, and a charismatic flick of your wrist.

You are not quite satisfied, but you are truly happy now. You can finally say that, and you are better off for it.

And time goes on, as does life, and as do you.

[choonxie]

You meet them in the early twilight, the setting sun flush deep in a sea of blue.

They fly real planes, you fly paper ones, and you both wish on the first shooting star of the evening.

“Maybe you could fly over these skies one of these days, and I could make an extra wish!”

“Well, I’ll be sure to grant your wish one of these days, then!”

You forget them soon enough, that one moment now just one of many once the love of your life came along.

You love her for the stars in her eyes, and she for the dreams in yours. It’s enough, and it’s all you need.

The day comes for both of you to be wed. You can’t contain your excitement; everything’s going to be perfect.

Paper planes adorn the tables and the walls. She teases you for being greedy, but you want everything.

It’s a starless night, but you’ve got that covered, too.

You leave your wedding reception for the runway, where a single plane awaits you and your bride: ”Where to, you lovebirds?“

You give your cousin-in-law a pat on the back and your destination, while she kisses them playfully on the cheek.

As you cruise along the high city skyline, you wonder for a fleeting moment how things would have turned out differently, had you made a different wish that night.

"No regrets,” they had counselled you in a note, on the only night in your life you were unsure of everything.

So you tell yourself that one more time and proceed to forget, because the stars align differently, and this is the path of yours.

Luckily, there are planes to help take you there. Extra wishes, indeed.

[choonxie]

bougainvilleas

Sometimes, I envy the bougainvilleas.

They’ve adorned the frontage of the main hospital building for as long as I can remember, sparse and quiet and ordinary. I never really paid attention to them since I first rotated here, up until present in residency.

But here I am, seated behind the triage table, a huge tarpaulin tent covering everything including the plants before me, and I am forced to stare to keep myself awake.

My two-minute lull ends, and more patients come. Ten more hours. 

I set aside my envy for now, and get to work. Time is a luxury.

Five hours later, another downtime. The volume of patients has abated for now, and I watch the bougainvillea plants again. If someone told me this job entails long hours of plant-watching on the side, I would have taken it anyway. Having a job, too, is a luxury.

I used to love being a doctor.

I wouldn’t say it was a calling, but there was someone I admired and aspired to be like, so I took the plunge and followed in their footsteps, despite being their complete opposite in almost everything. Ordinary people, too, have big dreams.

Then I learned in time, all too soon, that admiration alone wasn’t enough to cruise me through the storm that is medicine. Far from it, even.

So I cultivated my passion in it, hot and loud and noisy and everything that I clearly wasn’t. It helped for a while, but not for long.

The first thing that caught my eye when I first rotated in this hospital was the large blocked letters adorning the frontage— a good name to bank my future career in, if it would have me.

There may or may not have been plants adorning the area they were in, but I didn’t notice.

Soon, though, the work consumed me whole like tendrils of a vine, leeching everything from my very heart and soul. If med school was a typhoon, internship was an inferno.

Residency? I don’t even have words.

I stopped using the main entrance of the hospital since then.

The pandemic couldn’t have arrived soon enough.

I was only 2.5 months into my first year, still hopeful, still healing, still wondering if I have what it takes. Ordinary people get hurt, too, especially the quiet ones.

But time is a merciless master. It allows you not the luxury of getting your act together before it moves forward.

So many things have changed since then. People came and went, some temporary, others permanent. With the comings and goings, too, came so much pain, so much grief, so much anger.

Anger, too, was in my heart when I took my usual place at the triage table this morning. I can’t even remember why I was angry— only that I was.

And the downtime that came two hours later only gave me the time to stew in it. So I focused on the hospital frontage, the very same one I admired when I first arrived, all hot and loud and passionate (and lying).

Then I noticed the flowers planted around them. Bougainvilleas, sparse and quiet and ordinary.

Have they always been there before?

(And if so, how many things in life have I taken for granted all this time, while I was being untruthful to myself?)

I don’t know what came over me that instant, but seeing the quiet swaying of the small plants with the wind made me burst into tears. Thank God for PPE.

It is far from the cry I know I badly need, but it is a start.

I end my shift twelve hours later, with almost a hundred patients appraised, taken in, turned away, and everything in between. I am tired of telling people there are no more beds. A fair health system is a luxury— one we clearly do not have, and probably will never have until the end of our days.

(Ah, maybe it’s the cynicism that killed me first thing in freshman year, I think for a while. No, don’t go there.)

On the way out, I use the front gate, for once, and stop by the large, blocked letters that I let define a major part of my life. I really, really was a fool.

I hide myself behind them so the doctor who took over for me won’t see. I let my fingers caress the small, pink flowers, quiet and ordinary.

And I let myself grieve in envy.

[choonxie]

Horror Matsuri #7: “Deception”

“Am I pretty?”

Her devilish smile is all but visible through her mask— ah, so this is what it’s about.

Laughably easy.

Give a neutral reply; you know the algorithm well.

“You look fine.”

She’s unsatisfied with your answer, however.

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Excerpt from my flash fiction entry for Horror Matsuri 2020 (the second of two entries; the first is this poem). You might have read the original micro-fic before.

Schedule of Horror Matsuri 2020 is here. Do check out the other amazing entries, too!

[choonxie]

the mall that looks like chinatown

there’s a new mall this side of the metro  called “the golden phoenix"— like the southern constellation, warm and resplendent,  unlike here up north, where everything is frigid as ice.

the day of its opening, people come in bright red silks and embroidered scarves, toasting to dancing dragons and leaping lions. i scoff— inwardly, of course.  i don’t belong here, after all; my passport says so.

i leave my friends behind to explore. immediately, i hate it here, big and spacious and wrong— too many golden roosters, and ill-designed awnings  that mock the very design it copied. sucks to know architecture more than the masses. (it’s proof that i’m studying— my only purpose in life, or else  i’ll be disowned. mama said it’s my last chance.)

there’s another wing adjacent to the main mall. i prefer it here— smaller stalls run by grandmas who pounce on every customer in hopes of gaining a sale. the fanfare hasn’t reached here yet— good. i greet them with words i thought i’d forgotten by now, harsh sounds still pliant on my differing tongue despite months of disuse. they are only more than happy for it, and i am taken away, down the rabbit hole, for god-knows-how-long.

it’s already sunset when i re-emerge, bags full of memories and bargain deals, and a wallet surprisingly still heavy in my back pocket. (always trust your own people, mama said before i left,  kissing my cheek in tears. i regret, but do not look back.) there are no more festivities to be had— only shops closing up for the day,  and the few stragglers, too, going back home. the people here never stay up late.

the last thing i see by the exit  is a floating lantern, in the shape of a rat. good luck for the year ahead, one of the grandmas said,  pushing the same charm into my hand. i squeeze it tight, praying for something— anything, i don’t know. as the lights go out one by one, i gaze upon those big ears and squinted eyes, and suddenly, i, too, am reminded of home, and i feel so, so alone.

[choonxie]

“Eyes on me!” 

Insignia Stories’ Southeast Asian Fantasy Drabbles Anthology is finally LIVE! My first-ever published flash fiction, “Heterochromia,” is also included in this collection. 

Get your copy now! 

US link | Universal link

[choonxie]

I use a navigator app to get myself to the cemetery. It’s Tomb-Sweeping Day, and everyone else had gone ahead.

(It’s not like I want to go. I’m post-duty, fresh from the hospital, where death and life is a cycle, like a spinning wheel— of fortune or misfortune?)

The moment I step through the cemetery’s gates, the navigator outlives its usefulness. I cross myself and plug in music to keep the ghosts at bay. (It’s daytime, though. Weird— I’ve seen much worse, so why?)

.

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Excerpt from my poem for Insignia Stories’ Instincts (Poetry), “Qingming; Clarity”. 

Also the first of two entries I have for Horror Matsuri 2020; the other one’s a flash fiction story. Do check out the other amazing entries, too!

[choonxie]

on splurging and little hungers

Today’s afternoon tea is weak Indian Chai, a forgotten cup from the morning brew that I was only reminded of when I lifted the insulated mug to my lips. Blegh.

I really should replace this antique thing with one of those expensive flasks I’ve been seeing at the boutique store since forever ago— I’ve already begun to earn my own keep after all, as pitiful the paycheck is compared to those of my peers.

I shake my head. My parents will stop working in a few years. Every peso in my bank account matters. No time to think of frivolities that don’t matter.

Said the same thing for the books at the recent fair, and the cute dress at the market stall. The me before would have bought both in a heartbeat.

With age comes responsibility, and responsibility changes you— both in ways you do and do not want. That’s life.

One thing I never scrimped on, however, was food and drink— a carry-over from lessons during recess time in grade school.

I used to not have an allowance back then. I’d get a sandwich instead, while everyone else bought from the school canteen. It was enough, until it wasn’t.

I was a growing girl of eleven or twelve years, just at the cusp of beginning puberty, although the growth spurt didn’t happen yet. (That would come at thirteen or fourteen.) I still got a sandwich every day for recess— a single slice of bread with cheese spread, folded in half.

That slice of bread was enough to fill my small belly every day for the past seven or eight years, but soon I discovered that growing girls needed more than that.

I didn’t want to spend my angpao, though. I only get those once or twice a year. I was supposed to save that for big things, my parents said. And they’re right, of course— which parents were ever wrong?

So I stayed at the end of the line, waiting until the rest of the students had finished. And I would mill before the counter, debating whether I should buy food, too, or not.

It was there that my friend found me, a couple of minutes before the bell rang. “Aren’t you going to buy? We go back to class at 10:15.”

I still couldn’t decide, looking at the sealed red envelope in my wallet, then at her. Bell rings in two minutes, though. “Nah, I won’t. Let’s go.”

She looked at me in disbelief. “Girl. Buying food is never a waste of money. You’re gonna eat it, right?”

I nodded slowly, also in disbelief. Of course I would. Food must not be wasted.

“Good,” she smiled. “I’ll be waiting here.”

My outlook had been changed since then.

As I grew older, I eventually got pocket money of my own— to save, to spend, to do whatever I wanted with. I discovered the other joys and frivolities of life, and spent on those, too. Those made me happy, so why scrimp on them?

Nothing ever topped buying food and drink, though.

Every time I was happy or sad or mad, I would treat myself— to two or more meals in one sitting, to milk tea or dessert. Those dates with myself were the best, really, because I had the quality time I needed while filling my belly.

My wallet and BMI had suffered for it, but eh.

The habit stuck even until med school and beyond, when I ate to celebrate and to cope, and drank (not alcohol) to drown my sorrows and joys. Looking back, that may have been me torturing myself in a way, convincing myself that this was the way to do it.

Temporary, physical joys.

Eating never took the problems away, but they helped me deal with them a little better. Allotting a large part of my budget on food and drink is always worth it.

It was easy to do it when I wasn’t home, where no one from the house would judge me for having no control over my huge appetite and even larger spending. (Avarice, they whispered, impulsive and untempered.) So I would always go home later than my clock-off time, stopping for a bite to eat where no eyes would see and no ears would hear.

Couldn’t do that anymore since the pandemic started.

On days I’m not in the hospital, I’m at home instead, where I’m being watched like a hawk and my spending, likewise, being monitored. “We’ll run out of money if we’re not careful,” Mom once said. And she is right— she is always right.

Soon, they’ll both stop working, and I’ll have to shoulder the financing of this household. (On what, my paltry stipend?) I felt a twinge of regret, counting all the things I didn’t need to buy or eat but did anyway, all because I was too happy or too sad or whatever.

That helped me control myself, at least.

Good things came out of it, in a way. I track everything in a notebook now. I ask myself whether I really need something or not, before I make a purchase (or not). When I buy something, it’s after much careful consideration that I do, and I am happy with it.

I got thinner, too.

I guess that puts my life somewhat back on track, too, all things considered— not that it had been drastically derailed to begin with. (Still have a job. Still have a family and three meals a day and a roof over my head. Stuff to be grateful for, despite everything.)

I sip more of my afternoon tea, weak and cold because it was not properly insulated by an antique mug I’ve owned since forever. It fills my belly, still, and I smile— I’m content with all this, for now.

[choonxie]

inside joke

“Doc Danye!”

I whirl around, instantly frowning at the unwanted nickname from my batch mate. They have this tendency to pretty much butcher everyone’s names on first meeting, and I got christened “Danye” which rhymes with “Kanye”. I don’t know if I should be flattered or not.

I shoot them a pointed glare. “It’s Danielle. Even Dani is fine.”

A tinkling laugh, as they quickly catch up and stop the elevator doors from closing. “Aw, come on. That was just a joke. You know I’ll never tire of teasing you, my cute kouhai.”

That, on the other hand, is an inside joke only the two of us share. We’re the only residents in the department who consume Japanese pop culture things. It was a pleasant surprise I had not expected when I started residency, but a welcome one, nonetheless.

I smile. “I only forgive ten times, senpai.”

They beam at the affirmation, ruffling my still-wet hair before closing the elevator door. The whole ride down is silent, both of us with our backs to each other.

They smell nice, I think to myself. I don’t say it, of course. There are security cameras above us.

The floor number steadily goes down—29, 28, 27.

“So, Dani,” they start after a while, “are you all right now?”

I sniffle audibly in response. I’m actually still very shaken up from the unfair beratement I had gotten from a senior doctor yesterday afternoon.

I was too proud to let myself cry then, so I only let myself break down once I got back to my dorm.

Scratch that— I barely even reached the elevator when the tears suddenly fell, and gods my reflection on the walls has never been so pathetic.

And they saw all of it.

I hadn’t meant to let them see— they only happened to get on from the fifteenth floor. It’s not their fault.

“I’m okay now, I guess,” I shrug at them now. “Got dinner and some sleep.”

The elevator suddenly jolts, and I take a step back in surprise. My fall is broken by their slightly taller and broader shoulders, and I immediately flush at the sensation of warmth from our backs pressed together.

“Got you, kouhai,” they murmur suavely, and I don’t know whether I should snort or stutter.

So I do both. It makes them chuckle.

We reach the ground floor before long. We step away from each other just in time as the doors open. A senior from another department steps in after we get out, casually raising an eyebrow at us as we both fall into perfect step with each other.

“What do you think, Doc Danye?”

I turn to them, curiosity overtaking the mild annoyance at the repeat offense. “About?”

“Does Doc think we’re in love?”

I consider the thought with mild amusement. While not at all off the mark, now is a little too early to say that. “I don’t know. Are we?”

They shrug back, squeezing my arm as we step out of the building. The security guard greets us good morning and good luck, and they smile and wave back at him in reply.

With a fond smile, I nudge their arm with my elbow. “Until you stop calling me Danye, we’ll see.”

“Fair enough,” they concede with a smirk, but their voice carries undercurrents of affection within, and I know instantly that they do, in fact, feel the same.

I say nothing in reply for now. Maybe someday, when the time is ripe.

[choonxie]

code blue

Based on a personal experience in clerkship.

content / trigger warnings: medical emergency, death

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The announcement came through the PA system, a level, professional cadence that sent chills down one’s spine as it was being broadcast: “Code blue, code blue, code blue— hemodialysis unit." 

I was nowhere nearby that place, but I ran anyway.

During our first orientation for clerkship, our supervisor had emphasized to us our importance as first responders to a medical emergency— a code blue. We had undergone training in basic life support for several days in preparation for this. I remember how sore my arm muscles had been after hours of doing CPR on dummy chests, relishing the harsh clicking sound that came with every successful pump. "Hard and fast,” the manual had said, “100-110 compressions per minute." 

Stayin’ Alive still plays in my mind every time.

There are variations, too, to the hospital-wide announcement, depending on the operator on duty for that day. Sometimes, they say, "All medical clerks on duty, proceed to designated area” to soften the blow, but most others just say it, direct and plain and true: “Code blue." Either way, we all knew what to do whenever the announcement is made: drop everything and run. Someone just died— we need to revive them. Our residents need us— we need to help. 

There is a chime, then there is an announcement, then there is adrenaline. Wash, rinse, and repeat.

For the first few weeks, we followed this directive to the letter— drop everything and run, errands and charting and short breaks be damned. But soon, we learned to manage our time and make excuses—"but I’m with a patient,” “but Doc wants this done now,” “but I didn’t hear it.”

There were eventually fewer and fewer of us every time, as the months passed— to the point that a Cardiology fellow had gathered us in the empty critical wing one time at dawn, after a patient had just expired there and been quietly taken away. He made us practice CPR drills, two minutes per person.

I had cried after that— I’d been so tired that day that I had just fallen asleep in the call room as soon as I got to sit down after hours of seeing patients and running errands. I didn’t mean to miss the chime, really. But “what are excuses,” really, “compared to a life lost?”

Three days had passed since then, and I was on duty once more. It was relatively quiet this time, all things considered, and I settled down in the nurse’s station to read my patients’ charts.

Then there was a chime, followed by an announcement, a level, professional cadence, direct and plain and true: “Code blue, code blue, code blue." 

So I dropped everything and ran.

[choonxie]

Full story available on the Bookbed site.

For me, there was never a choice. For this wretched child, however, maybe I can give them one.

Written for the prompt: “People acquire superpowers when they undergo a severely traumatic event.” 

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Week Four of this year’s #BookbedFictory is still underway! Submit a 1000-word story (maximum), and Bookbed will donate 100php to a beneficiary of your choice. More details here.

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[choonxie]

downpour

“I’m sorry, Ma'am, but this is the furthest I can bring you. Traffic’s piling up because of the rain, and it’ll be difficult to get out later.”

The cab driver doesn’t even have the decency to look me in the eye while giving that age-old excuse. I shoot him a pointed glare anyway as I pay the fare. They’re all the same - if they don’t outright snub you, they ask you to pay a fixed fare that’s a lot more expensive than the cab meter - or they cheat you by dropping you off somewhere before your destination, citing “traffic buildup” as the reason for not going further.

This is why I hate taking cabs. And God, I don’t need to be reminded of that fact now, especially while being drenched in the rain. I don’t know if it’s just me, but every single time I go out for fun, I am always caught in late afternoon thunderstorms or evening downpours on the way home. Strong rains seem to love me like that Grudge woman loves her house. It’s so much like an evil curse, it terrifies me. How am I supposed to enjoy my life as a young woman?

Ah, but I digress. This wouldn’t have been an issue in the first place if that driver had only taken me to my house, like he should have. You do not do that to a paying customer, asshole.

I run across the street to the elevated waiting shed. There are only a couple of people there, so I can probably dry off somewhat while waiting out the sudden shower. As I step up the ledge, however, my foot slides off the tiled floor and I fall backwards. The sudden shock to my elbows hurts more than I’d expected, but at least I didn’t hit my head.

The one disadvantage to these plastic doll shoes I’m wearing is that they’re slippery on wet surfaces - though, of course, it is my fault for choosing to wear them out despite the very imminent possibility of rain. A girl’s gotta sacrifice comfort for style. The path to beauty is difficult, but there are sweet rewards to be had.

Like getting noticed by your crush, for one. Forget the compliment, he didn’t even look my way the whole day - not even once. It hurts a lot more than my grazed elbows, mostly in my chest, and a little around my eyes. Before I know it, an outstretched hand pulls me back up and seats me on the bench. There are indistinct voices in my ear, then a folded handkerchief comes into view. It’s a soft, baby blue thing, the pattern on which I cannot discern because my vision is swimming, and something warm trails down my cheeks, mixing with the cold of the raindrops.

Between me at my worst and me at my most vulnerable, I am not sure I can take any more crap than this. I just want to go home. Please.