Born to be a doctor

                                    

                                          


                          
↣ The Beginning 

                          
We are composed of 305 bones at birth that make up our human skeleton. Over time our bones fuse together, decreasing in quantity to 206. Most of these bones are in our hands and our feet: 26 in each foot and 27 in each hand.
                          
By the time you were 9 years old, you could name every bone in the adult skeleton and all of the muscles in the anterior compartment of the forearm. You were fascinated by the human body, from the trillions of synaptic connections to the way a person's environment played a significant role in their psychosocial development.
                          
Everything about a person fascinated you. 
                          
While other little girls looked towards the sky and marvelled at the sheer brilliance of the stars, you were nose deep into medical journals trying to understand their cogent philosophical dialogue. Why look at the stars and try to understand space when you could look at DNA and the constellations of our genetic make up?
                          
At times, you wonder if you chose medicine because everything about it was magical and brilliant or, if, medicine chose you because it ran through your veins. 
                          
Only the Gods will know. 
                          
You were 15 years old when your neighbours came to you with money in trade for medical assistance for the first time. It may sound unusual given your age but living on the bad side of town, no one cared. You had skills, and your community couldn't afford health care anyway. 
                          
For a middle class family, the donations received were kindly accepted and suddenly your bookshelves were filled with gauze, antiseptics and various types of sterile suturing kits you'd bought online. 
                          
Word had begun to spread of your gifts through your neighbours' connections within the ghettos of your city; people with both empty and heavy wallets would pay you for your assistance. You were quick and you were quiet. 
                          
And then, something happened that changed the course of your entire life, almost as if it were fate. 
                          
It couldn't possibly be anything else. 
                          
* * * 
                          
"Y/N," a voice shouts, ripping open the front door. "Where the fuck are you? Get your ass over here and help me drag him in."
                          
Taking off your glasses, you close your textbook and race towards the commotion at the front door. "What's going on?" you ask, scratching the back of your head. You round the corner of your lounge at the same time your white socks step into a puddle of crimson, soaking up blood.
                          
"...what the hell?" you whisper, lifting your feet. Adrenaline begins to flood your body. A rush you'll never get used to. You stare a second too long at the blood before you raise your trembling voice. "What happened now?" 
                          
"Y/N," your father yells. "It's the senator's son, we need you over here right now." You reluctantly follow the trail of blood towards the kitchen. Two men in suits push you into the kitchen as your mother starts pulling towels and your supplies from the living room shelves.
                          
"He was stabbed in the chest," the man behind you whimpers, ploughing his trembling fingers through his disheveled silver hair. "I can't go to the hospital. It will ruin my career and the elections are right around the corner, you must help me."
                          
The hanging kitchen light sways above him, capturing the pale of his face, the lines across his forehead, the absolute distress of a stupid old man. 
                          
You watch his bloodshot eyes dart towards the disfigured body on your table. "Save my son Y/N, I'll do anything."
                          
You wished you could say no. You wished you could go back up stairs and finish reading, you don't deserve to deal with this. Readjusting your glasses up the bridge of your nose, you sigh."Is your career more important than your son? I wont be able to do much with my supplies. You need to take him to a hospital."