His Games, Her Rules

“Heard about the party that’s coming up next weekend?” Tiwa asks, tying up her short dreadlocks into a ponytail.

“What party?” I ask. I’m always the last one to find out about what’s going on in this hospital. And every time, Tiwa is the one who gets to tell me what’s going on, what’s about to happen, and what has already happened in this hospital.

Tiwa is Nigerian, with a light brown chocolate complexion and natural dark, red lips. She’s not that tall, almost the same height as me and she’s really friendly. We hit it off immediately when we saw each other a few years ago, and we’re like best buds in this hospital. She’s a registered nurse now. We first met when she was a practical nurse but she’s now a fully registered nurse.

Tiwa left Nigeria about 8 years ago to study nursing and to work as a nurse in the United States and finally, she’s living her dreams and I’m happy for her.

“I know you love working as a nurse and I know you’re oftentimes occupied, but I feel like you’re overworking yourself, darling.”

Why does everyone think I’m overworking myself? And it sucks more to know they’re telling the truth. I overwork myself to escape memories that keep coming back even though I’ve pushed them far away to the back of my head.Content bel0ngs to Nôvel(D)r/a/ma.Org.

If I’m not in the hospital taking extra shifts, I’m being dragged to clubs by Monique to have “fun.” And on rare occasions, I’m sitting at home binge-watching movies and series on Netflix and Amazon Prime.

My friends think I’m not living. They think I should be out there doing what every 26-year-old is doing. And that means hitting clubs, hooking up with strangers, sunbathing every weekend, and going on expensive trips and vacations.

Back in Italy, that was my life, except for the hooking-up part. I was a closeted romantic, I believed in love, and I made sure my family didn’t know about it until they figured it out themselves. To them, being a romantic is a sign of weakness, and no woman in the family is supposed to show weakness and they made sure to make us that way. Not to show any ounce of weakness by falling in love.

“Women are supposed to be the dictators of their lives and their love life. A woman should never show weakness to a man and should carry herself like the queen she is. Love is for the weak. Men should beg for your attention and your time.” My mother made sure we remember these words and never forget them. My mom taught me and my sister that falling in love was for the weak and the last thing you’d want to be is weak.

I kept on asking myself how the hell she and my dad got married only to find out my mother was betrothed to my dad on the day of her 18th birthday. Her parents were filthy rich, but they thought she was better off married sooner than later. She was her parents’ only daughter and she had three older brothers who treated her like she was nothing. My father never loved my mother, but they learned to tolerate each other and respect each other. Surprisingly, my father grew to care for and cherish my mother. She made a name for herself, and the last person you’d want to mess with in my family is my mother. She never repeats her words twice, not for any reason and she never threatens. If she said she’s going to ruin your life, she will.

Me and my siblings were brought up to listen and to do whatever my parents told us. The food we ate, the clothes we wore, the countries we visited, when to take a break from the family business, and the men to date, were all determined by our parents. It was suffocating that I couldn’t breathe.

I came to this country with one thing in mind, to do whatever I please, whatever the fuck that makes me happy and that means living the exact opposite of the life I once knew in Italy. But yet I still walk down the street looking over my shoulder, feeling as if my past has finally caught up with me. I still live my life like my family still had their clutches on me, not willing to let me go. I go to parties and I scan the places before I step in, just to be sure none of my family’s acquaintances are there and then they’d recognize me and soon enough my family would know of my whereabouts.

I still live in fear. No matter the countless times I’ve told myself that my family cannot find me, a part of me keeps reminding me they can find me if they want to, they just don’t care enough. It’s been four years since I left, and I still feel like sooner or later, my past is going to catch up with me.

Sooner or later.

And I hate that I’m always vigilant, always looking, scanning, just trying to be invisible as much as I can. I remembered the day Monique asked me why I was always so observant. She claimed I was always looking for something that was not there. I gave her the only answer that crept into my head that instant. “Life is a scary place.”

I pull out a rubber band from the pockets of my scrubs and I tie my hair up in a loose ponytail.

“Robyn?” Tiwa calls for my attention.

I sigh and turn to look at my friend. “Okay. I hear you. I get it, I’m living my life like a lonely person, but I’m not lonely.” Which is true.

“Okay…”

“I just don’t care much about hospital gossip.”

“Who’s talking about hospital gossip, Robyn? I’m talking about the way you’re living. You need to take a breather, my friend.”

“Got it.”

Tiwa expels her breath. “And about the party, everyone’s talking about it. It’s been a long time since Saint Jose did something remotely fun, not to mention a party.”

“Is it a party though?”

“It’s a party. The board announced it on Monday, I think. You were busy in your head, you may not have heard about it.”

“What kind of party though?” I ask, not a bit interested, and Tiwa knows that.

“I think it’s for the hospital’s new stockholder. I hear he’s a very attractive man.” Noah butts in, strolling into the locker room and opening his locker, and tossing in his work bag.

Tiwa and I turn to stare at Noah who’s already dressed in his scrubs.

“You took your uniform home?”

“Nope. Mine got damaged. This is new. Got it from the queen herself.” Noah says, brushing his hair out of his face.

Noah is also a practical nurse like me. We are friends and he’s a really jovial guy, a little effeminate but that’s the thing that makes Noah really cute. He’s part Canadian and part American. He’s blonde, pale skin, a little on the lean side and he’s shorter than me.

“You’re late.” Tiwa points out.

“Yeah. I know. Shouldn’t we be out there working though?” Noah asks, then he turns to look at me. “And how come you don’t know the hospital’s having a party to celebrate and to introduce their newest stockholder?”

“Because Robyn doesn’t have a life, that’s why.” A high-pitched voice says. I can recognize that voice anywhere even with blindfolds on.

Caroline Peters, one of the board members’ daughters. She’s a registered nurse, soon to be promoted to head nurse because of her mother’s position even though everyone knows she doesn’t deserve to be here.

God, I fucking hate this bitch.

And the hate is mutual.

Every day of her life, she always finds a way to annoy the fuck out of my life. She doesn’t want me here and she doesn’t fail to remind me every day.

I roll my eyes and slam my locker shut, not failing to give Caroline Peters the stink eye.

“Eat shit and fall off a fucking bridge, Caroline.” I say to her, flashing her a devilish grin.

Caroline smirks as she looks at my two friends before turning to look at me. “That mouth of yours is the reason you won’t get a permanent job here.”

“We will see about that,” I say, taking two steps toward her, and then I mutter under my breath. “Butt licker.”

“What did you call me?” Caroline asks, puffing up her shoulders like she’s ready for a fight.

“Let’s get out of here.” Tiwa says, hand around mine as she pulls me to start walking.

“I thought as much.” Caroline says.

I shake my head at her as I follow Tiwa out of the locker room, with Noah behind us.