Emily sat outside of her first client's hospital room, wondering. How is it, the detached part of her mind mused, that you ended up like this? To get so far on so little was an act of God, but seems as though your time is up. You got through Med school, and know you're living in one pair of clothes as your first shot for a paycheck slips away five feet from your head. Two words- what irony. This Sam, she was playing a game for ages 20+. All the doctors said that the girl was dying, but Emily truly could not tell. There was still life in her, at least on the outside. She felt as if Sam's heart had been cut open when her parents died, and that climbing the telephone pole was her way of trying to stich the wound up. When the lightning struck her, it congeled the blood pouring from the gash in her life, and turned that layed into, like, fire coral or something. She assumed such a fiery disposition, and that was her way of saying that "it didn't hurt". Sam's problems were tearing her apart.
"So, Albert (he was the night shift male nurse in the intensive care unit). Is Sam doing OK?"
What does that mean, if I may ask?"
" 'means I dunno!"
"Right... well, good luck with the other patients."
"Bi*ch, go play with your shrinko girl...."- That one was only barely audible to her.
Emily picked up her notepad, and kissed the eye of Hurricane Sam goodbye in her mind.