Seen on the Purple Line to Linden at about 8:45 a.m.
scrubs are pressed and purple, fresh for another day. She plays on her phone to
distract herself. She tries not to see her reflection in the screen—a tired,
eroded face. Her eyes have yellowed from witnessing death. She tries not to
look at her hands, tries to forget the blood in which they’ve bathed. No matter
how many lives she saves, it will never be enough.
scrubs are not quite so neatly pressed as Regina’s, but he’s too young to need
that sort of comfort. He sleeps through the train ride, hugging his bag to his
chest. He dreams, but he will remember nothing when he wakes up. As his head
tilts forward, his glasses slip down his nose. The blood has not yet soaked
into his bones. The trauma and stress haven’t scrawled all over his skin.
Regina is jealous.
Sorry I didn't write yesterday. I was working from home. We have so many people staying at our house right now! Two of my sister's British friends are here, and we have a couchsurfer from Japan staying. Then Bethany and Catherine, my friends from high school, might come over the weekend. It never ends! In a good way. Party on.
Trivia tonight at Burwood Tap. We shall dominate.