"Let's play a game... a game of murder."
A young blossoming composer, Markel didn't know what to do when he was cordially invited to the last concert of a retiring pianist. But when the concert's true motive is revealed, Markel is sucked into a vort...
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'Look, Markel, just show me your shoulder. Once I look at it and it's all fine, you're good to go and you'll never hear from me again. Unless, of course, you decide on injuring yourself again.' The doctor's tired drawl fell on the deaf ears of a glaring, black-clad young man who currently resembled a chained prisoner.
'Deterioration is gone. Period. Please leave me alone.' The cool reply did nothing to satisfy the greying MD, so he signalled for the nurses to tighten their grips on his patient's slim arms.
Even Markel, who was used to his stepfather's beatings, could not hold back the raw yelp that escaped his throat as one nurse swiftly removed his Linkin Park tee, exposing the yellowing bandages that wrapped around his skin.
'Markel, you lied.' The doctor's disappointment unravelled alongside his bandages, Markel sighed in defeat as all but two of the nurses left the small, white room.
'It hurts. But it doesn't hurt that bad.'
'Right. Say that to the yelp from a minute or two ago.'
'It doesn't hurt as bad as a whiplash or a broken beer bottle. Better?'
The doctor shot the younger man a glare, which he returned alongside a sneer.
'Markel. You have your last final examination tomorrow. Do you want a good grade?'
'Of course I want a good grade! Who do you take me for? I'm not failing anything!'
'Do you like getting distracted?'
Markel thought for a second before replying with fervor, 'No one's really succeeded. Well, succeeded and lived, that is.'
The middle-aged doctor pointedly ignored the last part of Markel's reply, continuing on with his argument.
'If you don't like to be distracted, then let me treat you. You wouldn't want shoulder pain from your own tissue to be the reason for a grade less than a 95 like your English exam, now, would you?'
A snarl was the only thing that betrayed the composer's unhappiness, but he reluctantly complied with the doctor's requests, hissing in pain when the rubbing alcohol touched a piece of tissue that hadn't fully connected to his skin.
Three hours and countless stitches later, Markel left the hospital feeling like a repaired ragdoll. Or, at least what he imagined a repaired ragdoll would feel like after being fixed. He was extraordinarily sore, fatigued, but most of all, numb from the various anesthetics the doctor had insisted on injecting into him.
Growling in irritation when he found that it was already 6 o'clock, Markel raised a hand and hailed a taxi back to the apartment. He had studying to do.
It was around 10:00 PM when Markel detected the sounds of a screen door opening and closing. Soft footsteps indicated the return of his roommate from PTSD therapy, and a few moments later the 19 year old stood at the doorway of the bedroom they shared.
