His Nasty Little Pussy

After an hour had passed, he jumped to his feet.

“I’m going to see what’s taking so long,” he said.

Chris strolled over to the reception desk and leaned forward, putting his weight on the counter.

“Hey!” he called to the nurse behind the counter. “What’s taking so long? My sister’s in pain out here! We’ve been waiting over an hour!”

“Patients are seen in order of the severity of their conditions,” the nurse explained. “It’s not first come, first served.” “Well, how long will it be?” he asked.

“It shouldn’t be long now, long now less someone comes in with a serious condition. They were backed up, but they’re almost caught up,” she told him.

Chris stormed back over to me with his fists balled up beside him. He slumped back into his seat and sulked, muttering obscenities under his breath.

“If you want to go home, it’s…” I started to say.

“No way,” Chris said flatly. “I’ll stay as long as it takes. I just don’t want you sitting here in for ain so long.” “It’s not so bad,” I lied.

In truth, my hand was throbbing angrily. I could feel the skin stretching over the back of my hand as it swelled larger and larger, and a huge bruise was spreading out over it, ugly and vicious.

“It looks bad,” Chris commented.

“It doesn’t hurt that much,” I told him.

Chris spotted a vending machine across the room and he made his way over to it. He dropped some coins into it and punched a button. He brought the can over to me.

“For your hand,” he said, holding it out toward me.

I took it gratefully and placed it on the back ofhandehot searing pain shot through my hand and up my arm.

“Ow!” I shrieked, and he jumped.

He took the can from me and placed it gently inside my swollen hand. I couldn’t grip it, but it hurtless heavily inside my hand rather than outside it.

“God, I’m so sorry,” he groaned.

“I said it’s fine, Chris,” I told him.

“I’ll never forgive myself for this. Never.”

“Don’t blame yourself. I told you, it was an accident.”

“Yeah, but it’s my fault you even came in there. It’s my fault for slamming the door on your hand. Everything’s always my fault,” he muttered.This belongs © NôvelDra/ma.Org.

“Don’t say that,” I said gently. “Please don’t.”

“You don’t get it. My whole life, everything’s always been my fault.

It was my fault my parents split up. If I hadn’t been such a prick…” “Stop it,” I demanded. “You had nothing to do with any of that.” He shook his head sadly and rolled his eyes.

“You just don’t understand, kid,” he told me.

“Stop calling me kid,” I snapped.

“Alright, alright, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling. His foot was on his knee again, jiggling wildly.

“Parker,” a voice called. “Mika Parker!”

I stood up and followed the voice to a door behind the reception desk. A nurse stood there smiling and waiting patiently.

“Mika Parker?” she asked pleasantly.

“That’s me,” I said.

“You can wait out here,” the nurse said to Chris.

“No!” I practically shouted.

“Is he family?” she asked, assuming, I suppose, that he was my boyfriend.

“He’s my brother,” I told her.

She raised one eyebrow skeptically.

“You don’t look alike,” she commented.

“He’s my stepbrother,” I clarified.

“Hmm,” she said, thinking for a moment. “Alright, come on back.”

I had my hand x-rayed, and then I had to wait for the doctor to come analyze the results. It was nearly thirty minutes before she showed up. She told me my hand was broken, and I had to have it set in a cast. When we got home, my father and Susan were waiting.

“Are you alright?” Dad asked as soon as I walked through the door.

Dad wrapped me in a tough bear hug, and then he glared accusatorily at Chris.

“What happened?” Susan asked.

“I slammed my hand in a door,” I said.

“What? How?” Susan wanted to know.

“I was just being clumsy,” I said. “I was lucky Chris was home. The doctor at the hospital said my hand could have been permanently damaged if I hadn’t gone to the hospital. It was Chris who convinced me to go.” My dad softened a little.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said, squeezing my shoulders.

“I’m going to head to bed,” I told him, and he nodded, kissing me on the forehead.

I brushed my teeth, and then I went to my room, changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top, and crawled into bed. A little while later, just before I drifted off to sleep, I heard my bedroom door open.

Chris sat down on the bed beside me. I pretended to be asleep. He brushed a strand of hair away from my face.

“Mika?” he asked quietly. “You awake?”

I pretended to stir, turning over and looking at him with a fake yawn.

“Chris?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he acknowledged. “I just wanted to apologize again and see how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine,” I told him. “It doesn’t hurt that much anymore.”

“Thanks for not telling them I did it,” he said, staring at my wall. “Your dad already has enough reasons to hate me without thinking I broke your hand.”

“Why would he hate you?” I asked curiously.

He shrugged.

“Everyone does,” he said. “Everyone always has.”

“I don’t,” I whispered, stroking his cheek with my good hand.

His eyes looked deeply into mine. I sat up and pressed my lips against his. For a moment, he responded by kissing back. Then he jumped up and backed away.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him. “This isn’t right,” he said. “I can’t.” And then he was gone.