a precious basket case

In the realm of things Ruìsāng harboured an absolute disdain for, doctors took the crown. His profound aversion stemmed from the depths of his heart, mistrust casting an impenetrable shadow over anyone who dared to get too close. The act of stitching up his own wounds felt like a more dependable course than surrendering to another's touch. To him, wounds served as tangible proof of vulnerability and weakness, and he clung to that evidence as if it were a morbid badge of honour.

Yet, he found himself crossing the threshold of a clinic, a place he’d typically avoid. Echoes of Vince’s morphine offer resonated in his mind. The constant ache in his hand served as a nagging reminder that something needed addressing. The once-mangled hand, now adorned with uneven scabs over raw, crimson flesh, exhibited proof of a tumultuous healing process. Its irregular healing resulted in wounds that persistently reopened and suffered disruption. The hand remained slightly swollen, its mobility severely restricted.

Long story short, he needed someone to take a proper look at it. Two weeks ago, it had been torn and mangled, bleeding despite every attempt to stop it. Now, it healed, but if he didn’t visit a doctor, he assumed it’d get infected.

Despite the inward turmoil, Ruìsāng found himself reluctantly within the clinic, where the air hung heavy with the scent of antiseptic. He took a moment to cast a wary glance around before raising his bandaged hand, revealing subtle bloodstains beneath the cloth. In this silent plea, in a space known not to ask questions, he admitted:

“I need help.”

The man introduced himself as Lamar Sault, claiming the role of his doctor. Ruìsāng's response was a slow nod, his bloodshot eyes lingering intently on the man as he turned to leave. A moment of hesitation gripped Ruìsāng before he found his feet shuffling behind the doctor. His relationship with doctors had always been a deep-seated aversion, their probing questions like daggers into his skin. Yet, the relentless agony in his hand was a call he could no longer ignore. Surrendering to the need for aid, he followed.

In the sterile room, he sank into the chair, an unspoken obedience to an unsaid command. His gaze dropped to his lap, almost in resignation, when Lamar assumed the issue was with his hand. A silent, resigned nod was his only reply. “Just the hand,” he murmured, extending it across the table, its mangled state obscured by layers of makeshift bandages. More swathes of cloth wound tightly around his chest remained a secret. But his hand, consisting of torn flesh and agony, he could concede to the doctor’s scrutiny.

“I got into… an accident. With something sharp. Now it’s… bad,” he vaguely explained. “I don’t think— I don’t think it’s getting better.” Not enough, at least.

Luckily, Ruìsāng was no stranger to pain, and he faced it with a stoic resolve as the bandages were unwound. His expression remained unflinching. He gazed ahead, enduring the discomfort in silence while the medic navigated through the layers of bandages, stained in a stark contrast of white and red.

The medic's voice broke the silence, inquiring about the necessity of cleaning the wound, followed by a question regarding its mobility. Ruìsāng responded with a slight shake of his head. “I can move it a little, but it hurts,” he confessed. An attempt to clench his fist was short-lived, a wince betraying the pain, compelling him to relent and leave the hand open.

To the earlier question, Ruìsāng gave a nod of assent. “Sure,” he acquiesced, his tone reflecting an inner resignation.