Chapter 2 - Needles
Peter was a jerk! I could not believe how mean he was being when I felt so bad. I wasn't sick, but even if I was (which I was a little), that was no reason for him to push me around. Who died and made him king of New York? Who made him boss of me? (Okay, I did a little when I got him to release me from prison into his custody, but that was still beside the point.)
All I wanted was for him to leave me alone in my misery at June's, but he had to show up, like some general, and start ordering me about. Get dressed, get in the car, sit still! And he lied – he lied! – to me and tricked me into going to the doctor's. He would pay for that later.
And I had to get prodded and probed like a lab rat, and no one listened to me though it was my body – my body, not Peter's and I should know what was best for myself and not Peter, who apparently thinks he's God – and then the doctor decided I needed a shot. He didn't ask me. There was no "Oh, Mr. Caffrey, since you've been so obliging to come here at the request of the man over there who is clearly a bully or a dictator and seems to be enjoying your agony, we would like to know if you think a shot would help you feel better. If you decide it would not help, then we understand and trust your judgment because you are clearly the smartest person in the room, including the brute in the corner who trampled over everyone to bring you here and should clearly be locked up for assault and insanity and being a mean man."
Nobody wanted to hear my opinion, and I knew I would have to sit there and endure the shot which I planned to do just to show Peter I could take pain better than he could. This was war – every man for himself and I could take ten shots without flinching while I knew Peter would cry at the first one. His whole "I'll take one to show you it doesn't hurt" was just a bluff.
And I would have been resolved the entire time, except that another nurse came in with a tray with the shot on top of it!!!
It was like "Here's your dinner, Mr. Caffrey. Is it cardon bleu and fine wine that you could appreciate? No, it's a long needle to scare you!"
Worst surprise ever.
The nurse set the tray on the table, looking all calm and bored like she did this all the time, just another patient to torture with a horrible long needle and stinging medicine.
I really did mean to show Peter I didn't care, but my body obviously had other plans. Before I could stop myself, I flew out on my seat and made a dash for the door. Peter caught me there, and we had a desperate tug of war over the door.
He managed to shut it, barely avoiding my fingers (guess he didn't care if they got smashed), and he strong-armed me back toward the table.
"Is he all right?" the nurse finally looked alarmed.
"He's fine," Peter had me by the arms, and while it didn't hurt too much, I couldn't escape him despite my squirming. The guy is like a rock, blast him, and I might as well try to shove against a wall.
"I take it he doesn't like shots," the nurse observed.
"Brilliant," I snarled.
"You want to give it in his arm or should he bend over the table?" the hard-hearted brute asked.
"No, I won't," I declared.
"We could give it to him in a pill instead," the nurse said doubtfully.
"Yes, that," I nodded.
"No, not that," Peter barked. "He's a grown man and he can take a shot. He spent four years in prison – a needle can't be that scary."
The nurse raised an eyebrow at me. "Well, still . . . we have people who are scared of needles. In fact, we don't have that many patients who like needles . . . but some do not like the idea at all and cry at the sight of them."
I was about to relax when Peter quipped, "Are the scared patients children?"
Bastard!
"Usually," the nurse nodded, "but we don't have –"
"I'm not babysitting a child," Peter growled. "Now, you take this shot, or I'll treat you like a child from now on."
I wanted to stomp on his foot and yelled that he treated me like a child anyway what with the tracker and condescending language and paddling me last week, but I scowled and muttered, "Fine, I'll take it."
Peter didn't relax his grip on my arms, not trusting me as usual.
"Pull your shirt up and turn around," the nurse directed as she pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, snapping them sadistically. "I'll give it to you high on your hip."
That sounded awful, not even being able to see it, but I reached down and pulled up my tee shirt. Peter let my arms go, but he was close enough that he could grab me if I decided to bolt. I glared at him and turned to the table, leaning forward just enough to angle my body out. My pants were tugged down about an inch, and something cold touched my skin, just above my right butt cheek. I jumped.
"Relax, it's just the antiseptic," the nurse said.
It was so humiliating, and my head ached and my throat hurt and my sinuses felt like they were going to explode, and everyone was so mean to me while I felt so sick, and I wasn't sick, and I was going to get stuck with a needle because Peter liked to hurt me.
I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, and Peter said, "Steady, it will be over in a moment."
I felt the nurse slap over where she had wiped, and I opened my eyes wide at the injustice of that. She slapped again, and then grabbed a handful of my flesh back there. The prick of the needle wasn't that bad, but I felt the medicine sting.
I had been frisked in prison and put in solitary once, but none of that was as embarrassing as this. If Peter wasn't there, I could have retained a shred of dignity, but then if he hadn't been there, I would have bolted long ago.
She finally drew the needle out and slapped a band-aid over the injection site. I straighten, wincing at the twinge.
The nurse gathered up the stuff and left the room, not wanting to stay after my mortification was through. Peter shook his head at me.
"You'll do anything for attention, Caffrey. Stop being such a baby."
I was so outraged by his callous behavior that I floundered for words.
"Sit down and put your shoes on and we'll go check out," Peter directed.
Again, such barbaric behavior. There was nothing I could really do except sit down and slip my shoes on, and I scrambled for some appropriate revenge for what he had done to me. I tease and pick on Peter all through the week and he bosses me around, but this was something different entirely. And on top of all the manhandling and pushing, it had been two whole minutes and I didn't feel better, so he had lied, too.
At least Kate had been nice when I was sick. She had gotten me medicine and crushed it up in my food without telling me so I got better without having to go to the doctor's or get shots or swallow huge pills. Kate knew I hated admitting I was sick, and she went out of her way to make me feel better, unlike the bully who held out my coat impatiently.
"Put that on. Why are you wearing a tee shirt when it's so cold outside? This is how you got sick in the first place."
I gave him cold silence while we checked out, and I sat stonily in the car as we drove off. I planned not to speak to him until he dropped me of at June's, and then I would tell him what I thought about him. He would hear about it, and he would suffer my wrath and my articulate wit and my barb-like words.
"Here," he handed me a bottle of water that seemed to come from nowhere. "Take one of the sample pills, one of each, and drink all this water."
I did not speak as I put both the pills on my tongue and gulped down the water. It was hard to swallow, especially without being able to breathe through my nose, and I spilled some of the water on my coat.
"Drink it slowly – don't choke," Peter told me.
I capped the water, ignoring the sting of my eyes at the pain of drinking so much, and then I looked out the window.
I realized when we turned on the street that we were gong to Peter's and not June's.
"Why are we here?" I questioned.
"Because I need to work today and you need to rest," Peter parked the car.
"I want to go home," I hated how whiny my voice sounded, but I wanted him to take me home. I would crash on the sofa and resume my task of applying tissues to my sore nose while wishing I would just fall unconscious.
Peter didn't answer, and I climbed the million stairs up to his front door and stumbled into the house. I fell into the nearest chair and concentrated on trying to breathe while Peter went up and down the stairs.
Something dropped into my lap.
"Put those on," Peter instructed as I looked dully at the folded clothes on my lap.
"Huh?"
"Flannel pajamas that El bought and I never wore. You can sleep upstairs in the guest bedroom – it's warming up now. El will be back later this afternoon."
"I don't want to go to bed – I'm staying right here," I leaned my head against the back of the chair.
"You'll feel better after a nap," Peter promised.
All right, I am usually a very well-mannered person. I don't yell, I rarely swear, and I smile politely even when people treat me badly. There have been times I've wanted to tell Peter to shove it, but I haven't.
However, I felt horrible, my whole body hurt, and the medicine wasn't working yet.
"Screw you," I told him. Only, I didn't say "screw."
Peter gave me a look, and then he grabbed my arm, pulled me out the chair, and turned me around. I stumbled, grabbing the arms of the chair to catch myself, and then he slapped my rear hard. I gasped, but he slapped me again.
Very possibly the worst day ever. I had been shoved and belittled and stabbed with a needle, and now the man who had put me in prison for years and enjoyed torturing me was spanking me for not jumping up to follow his every command.
I should have turned around and decked him. I should have sworn some more. I should have threatened to sue him and take the house and his wife and his dog.
What I actually did was burst into tears. My eyes welled up and tears spilled down my cheeks and I wailed, "No, Peter! Don't!"
"Are you going to mind me?" he said, giving me a fourth spank. "You are sick and exhausted and you will feel better once you get some sleep."
"All right, I will," I sobbed.
I don't know how I got upstairs or how my cold hands stripped my clothes off and pulled on the flannel pajamas, but I found myself tumbling into the bed in the guest room. The sheets were cold for a moment, and I shivered for a second as I yanked the covers up. My teeth chattered, and Peter frowned from the doorway.
"Sleep for a while and I'll make up some lunch later," Peter promised. He went over to the thermostat on the wall and adjusted the temperature. I watched blankly as he closed the blinds over the windows, dimming the room, and then he grabbed a quilt out of the closet, unfolded it, and tossed it over me.
My eyes were still leaking sullen tears, but I felt so tired I couldn't muster the energy I needed to tell him that I wasn't cold, that I didn't need a nap, and that I wanted him to leave me alone. I blinked, watching him go out the door and leave it open a few inches, but the bed was swallowing me up fast.
I was very warm now and horribly tired, but my head didn't ache as much as it had, and I felt my sinuses pop and start to clear as I drifted off, the last sound the heat blowing through the vents and Satchmo following Peter through the house.
All I wanted was for him to leave me alone in my misery at June's, but he had to show up, like some general, and start ordering me about. Get dressed, get in the car, sit still! And he lied – he lied! – to me and tricked me into going to the doctor's. He would pay for that later.
And I had to get prodded and probed like a lab rat, and no one listened to me though it was my body – my body, not Peter's and I should know what was best for myself and not Peter, who apparently thinks he's God – and then the doctor decided I needed a shot. He didn't ask me. There was no "Oh, Mr. Caffrey, since you've been so obliging to come here at the request of the man over there who is clearly a bully or a dictator and seems to be enjoying your agony, we would like to know if you think a shot would help you feel better. If you decide it would not help, then we understand and trust your judgment because you are clearly the smartest person in the room, including the brute in the corner who trampled over everyone to bring you here and should clearly be locked up for assault and insanity and being a mean man."
Nobody wanted to hear my opinion, and I knew I would have to sit there and endure the shot which I planned to do just to show Peter I could take pain better than he could. This was war – every man for himself and I could take ten shots without flinching while I knew Peter would cry at the first one. His whole "I'll take one to show you it doesn't hurt" was just a bluff.
And I would have been resolved the entire time, except that another nurse came in with a tray with the shot on top of it!!!
It was like "Here's your dinner, Mr. Caffrey. Is it cardon bleu and fine wine that you could appreciate? No, it's a long needle to scare you!"
Worst surprise ever.
The nurse set the tray on the table, looking all calm and bored like she did this all the time, just another patient to torture with a horrible long needle and stinging medicine.
I really did mean to show Peter I didn't care, but my body obviously had other plans. Before I could stop myself, I flew out on my seat and made a dash for the door. Peter caught me there, and we had a desperate tug of war over the door.
He managed to shut it, barely avoiding my fingers (guess he didn't care if they got smashed), and he strong-armed me back toward the table.
"Is he all right?" the nurse finally looked alarmed.
"He's fine," Peter had me by the arms, and while it didn't hurt too much, I couldn't escape him despite my squirming. The guy is like a rock, blast him, and I might as well try to shove against a wall.
"I take it he doesn't like shots," the nurse observed.
"Brilliant," I snarled.
"You want to give it in his arm or should he bend over the table?" the hard-hearted brute asked.
"No, I won't," I declared.
"We could give it to him in a pill instead," the nurse said doubtfully.
"Yes, that," I nodded.
"No, not that," Peter barked. "He's a grown man and he can take a shot. He spent four years in prison – a needle can't be that scary."
The nurse raised an eyebrow at me. "Well, still . . . we have people who are scared of needles. In fact, we don't have that many patients who like needles . . . but some do not like the idea at all and cry at the sight of them."
I was about to relax when Peter quipped, "Are the scared patients children?"
Bastard!
"Usually," the nurse nodded, "but we don't have –"
"I'm not babysitting a child," Peter growled. "Now, you take this shot, or I'll treat you like a child from now on."
I wanted to stomp on his foot and yelled that he treated me like a child anyway what with the tracker and condescending language and paddling me last week, but I scowled and muttered, "Fine, I'll take it."
Peter didn't relax his grip on my arms, not trusting me as usual.
"Pull your shirt up and turn around," the nurse directed as she pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, snapping them sadistically. "I'll give it to you high on your hip."
That sounded awful, not even being able to see it, but I reached down and pulled up my tee shirt. Peter let my arms go, but he was close enough that he could grab me if I decided to bolt. I glared at him and turned to the table, leaning forward just enough to angle my body out. My pants were tugged down about an inch, and something cold touched my skin, just above my right butt cheek. I jumped.
"Relax, it's just the antiseptic," the nurse said.
It was so humiliating, and my head ached and my throat hurt and my sinuses felt like they were going to explode, and everyone was so mean to me while I felt so sick, and I wasn't sick, and I was going to get stuck with a needle because Peter liked to hurt me.
I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, and Peter said, "Steady, it will be over in a moment."
I felt the nurse slap over where she had wiped, and I opened my eyes wide at the injustice of that. She slapped again, and then grabbed a handful of my flesh back there. The prick of the needle wasn't that bad, but I felt the medicine sting.
I had been frisked in prison and put in solitary once, but none of that was as embarrassing as this. If Peter wasn't there, I could have retained a shred of dignity, but then if he hadn't been there, I would have bolted long ago.
She finally drew the needle out and slapped a band-aid over the injection site. I straighten, wincing at the twinge.
The nurse gathered up the stuff and left the room, not wanting to stay after my mortification was through. Peter shook his head at me.
"You'll do anything for attention, Caffrey. Stop being such a baby."
I was so outraged by his callous behavior that I floundered for words.
"Sit down and put your shoes on and we'll go check out," Peter directed.
Again, such barbaric behavior. There was nothing I could really do except sit down and slip my shoes on, and I scrambled for some appropriate revenge for what he had done to me. I tease and pick on Peter all through the week and he bosses me around, but this was something different entirely. And on top of all the manhandling and pushing, it had been two whole minutes and I didn't feel better, so he had lied, too.
At least Kate had been nice when I was sick. She had gotten me medicine and crushed it up in my food without telling me so I got better without having to go to the doctor's or get shots or swallow huge pills. Kate knew I hated admitting I was sick, and she went out of her way to make me feel better, unlike the bully who held out my coat impatiently.
"Put that on. Why are you wearing a tee shirt when it's so cold outside? This is how you got sick in the first place."
I gave him cold silence while we checked out, and I sat stonily in the car as we drove off. I planned not to speak to him until he dropped me of at June's, and then I would tell him what I thought about him. He would hear about it, and he would suffer my wrath and my articulate wit and my barb-like words.
"Here," he handed me a bottle of water that seemed to come from nowhere. "Take one of the sample pills, one of each, and drink all this water."
I did not speak as I put both the pills on my tongue and gulped down the water. It was hard to swallow, especially without being able to breathe through my nose, and I spilled some of the water on my coat.
"Drink it slowly – don't choke," Peter told me.
I capped the water, ignoring the sting of my eyes at the pain of drinking so much, and then I looked out the window.
I realized when we turned on the street that we were gong to Peter's and not June's.
"Why are we here?" I questioned.
"Because I need to work today and you need to rest," Peter parked the car.
"I want to go home," I hated how whiny my voice sounded, but I wanted him to take me home. I would crash on the sofa and resume my task of applying tissues to my sore nose while wishing I would just fall unconscious.
Peter didn't answer, and I climbed the million stairs up to his front door and stumbled into the house. I fell into the nearest chair and concentrated on trying to breathe while Peter went up and down the stairs.
Something dropped into my lap.
"Put those on," Peter instructed as I looked dully at the folded clothes on my lap.
"Huh?"
"Flannel pajamas that El bought and I never wore. You can sleep upstairs in the guest bedroom – it's warming up now. El will be back later this afternoon."
"I don't want to go to bed – I'm staying right here," I leaned my head against the back of the chair.
"You'll feel better after a nap," Peter promised.
All right, I am usually a very well-mannered person. I don't yell, I rarely swear, and I smile politely even when people treat me badly. There have been times I've wanted to tell Peter to shove it, but I haven't.
However, I felt horrible, my whole body hurt, and the medicine wasn't working yet.
"Screw you," I told him. Only, I didn't say "screw."
Peter gave me a look, and then he grabbed my arm, pulled me out the chair, and turned me around. I stumbled, grabbing the arms of the chair to catch myself, and then he slapped my rear hard. I gasped, but he slapped me again.
Very possibly the worst day ever. I had been shoved and belittled and stabbed with a needle, and now the man who had put me in prison for years and enjoyed torturing me was spanking me for not jumping up to follow his every command.
I should have turned around and decked him. I should have sworn some more. I should have threatened to sue him and take the house and his wife and his dog.
What I actually did was burst into tears. My eyes welled up and tears spilled down my cheeks and I wailed, "No, Peter! Don't!"
"Are you going to mind me?" he said, giving me a fourth spank. "You are sick and exhausted and you will feel better once you get some sleep."
"All right, I will," I sobbed.
I don't know how I got upstairs or how my cold hands stripped my clothes off and pulled on the flannel pajamas, but I found myself tumbling into the bed in the guest room. The sheets were cold for a moment, and I shivered for a second as I yanked the covers up. My teeth chattered, and Peter frowned from the doorway.
"Sleep for a while and I'll make up some lunch later," Peter promised. He went over to the thermostat on the wall and adjusted the temperature. I watched blankly as he closed the blinds over the windows, dimming the room, and then he grabbed a quilt out of the closet, unfolded it, and tossed it over me.
My eyes were still leaking sullen tears, but I felt so tired I couldn't muster the energy I needed to tell him that I wasn't cold, that I didn't need a nap, and that I wanted him to leave me alone. I blinked, watching him go out the door and leave it open a few inches, but the bed was swallowing me up fast.
I was very warm now and horribly tired, but my head didn't ache as much as it had, and I felt my sinuses pop and start to clear as I drifted off, the last sound the heat blowing through the vents and Satchmo following Peter through the house.
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