The Protector

THIRTY-FIVE

"Protector Rodriguez is doing great, but we'll need to keep him a couple more days to heal his internal bleeding," The main Healer said, her white lab coat indicating her name was Protector West. The woman was probably fifty or so, with short gray hair and thick black framed glasses. She had an air about her that said she had been a Healer for a very long time. 

West awkwardly reached out a hand to comfort me, more than likely because of the look of sheer terror on my face. I may not have followed through with my medical degree, but I knew enough to know internal bleeding was not a good sign. "Don't be concerned Perry, we see these injuries all the time and have the perfect cure for them. Julian shouldn't have any residual deficits from this encounter." I nodded a few times feeling hollow inside.

Following my clash with Kyler in the locker room, I decided to forgo the rest of my classes and headed straight for the infirmary instead. I sat next to Julian's unconscious body in a room not unlike any other ICU. Several monitors and medications were connected to his arms, beeping occasionally, and I watched, amazed, as Julian's face slowly morphed back into its prior glory, but he still had yet to regain consciousness. The sun sank as I sat by his bedside, until Healer West emerged and gave me the update on his case, advising me to go back to my room. She informed me that without rest, his condition wouldn't improve as quickly, and my presence was a hindrance towards his health. All I needed was yet another blow to my already fragile ego. Not only did Kyler never want me, but my simple presence in the room would prevent Julian from healing properly.

I wanted to argue, but instead quietly gathered my things and headed for the elevator. A quick shower and a long night of sleep were practically screaming out to me, despite my watch mocking me by showing it was only 6 p.m. Stupid technology. I was tempted to crush the digital watch face against the side of the elevator, but knew my father would replace the watch with a new, improved one. 

I stepped off the elevator and onto the 33rd floor, sensing immediately something was amiss. I moved slowly down the hall, noticing several doors cracked open with smug female faces peering out at me. I hiked my duffle bag higher on my shoulder, feeling uncomfortable from all the attention. I finally reached my door and found it gaping wide open, like the looming entrance to a haunted house.

From the doorway, I saw my drawers pulled from my desk and my things scattered haphazardly all over the floor. I glanced back and all the doors in the hallway closed simultaneously. I pushed my mind out, feeling my anger mounting, but didn't sense anyone else in the room, my perpetrator long gone. I stalked slowly through the door and my gym bag fell to the hardwood floor with a heavy thud. In red paint, smeared the entire length of the white wall, was the word SLUT. Blunt. To the point. And dripping all over the white comforter on my bed. 

I felt my anger flare, but more than anything I felt tired. The stunt reeked of immaturity and insecurity. Whoever did this wanted a rise out of me, to see me crying and running down the hallway in front of the audience. Instead, I closed the door and stripped off my clothes and climbed into the scalding hot water of the shower. After taking care to wash my hair twice and shave my legs, I climbed from the heat and untacked from the wall a black thong and bra the perpetrator found the need to nail to my bedroom wall.

I slid on the thong and bra and quickly braided my hair and pulled on my tennis shoes. "Text President Andrews," I instructed into my watch. "Someone decided to redecorate my room without my approval, so I'm going to need some new paint and linens. Thanks." My watch vibrated indicating my text message was sent. I grabbed my backpack and left my room, not wanting to be around when the maintenance crew arrived.