Chapter 1, Part 2

So like I'd said... I'm planning on writing a book. I guess I'll keep putting bits of it on here to kind of keep me going...!

Frumpy stood there stunned. He knew of Smokey, and he thought she was alright, nothing really stood out about her before, but here he was, heart in his mouth, not knowing what had hit him. If she had got that name from being smoking hot, he now knew why. He felt as if she’d burnt him when she bumped into him, her eyes bore holes through him and he swore she could see deep into his being, but her warmth radiated through him making him feel a level of comfort he hadn’t known here. Before he could stop himself he’d asked her if he could get her something, coffee, water, anything to give him a few moments with her. He didn’t know what it was – he’d never felt this way before about anyone. Sure he loved flirting with girls, using them for a little fun, but this pull was just... he had no words to describe it.

As he watched her walk away, he felt a strange surge of relief that she hadn’t accepted his offer. Afterall if he wanted to get to know her she would have questions too and he wasn’t much of a talker – he had secrets, a shady past he wasn’t proud of and he just wanted to start over. His relationships up until now had been superficial and shallow based merely on fulfilling his needs which to him justified his fooling around. He wasn’t out to impress, he was aware that it showed in his shabby attire, his worn shoes, and his unkempt hair. His seniors had told him off many a time for his stubble as he was a doctor now – he needed to be presentable. He’d polish up for a day or two before slipping back into his old frumpy self. He was here for a reason, a purpose. He needed just a few more years of experience and then he had a plan to leave this place once and for all, bury his secrets, and never return.

Suddenly he felt alive. For the past three months, since he’d come to this God forsaken place he’d felt like a robot without an ounce of consciousness. His days were predictable – only sometimes they involved a girl joining him – but even then, he was numb inside. His thoughts seldom reflected his life nor did he express any emotion. At most his brain analysed and interpreted data from his research studies and transmitted neurosignals that let his hand find the scalpel to pass to the good doctor; that too only because he needed to appear sharp and focused in the OR and do enough work on the research front to keep him employed. He would much rather spend his days lazily spread on the cushions in front of the TV, clad in nothing more than his favourite boxers, playing Call of Duty.