It Really Is That Bad

Havermouth, A few days after the storm

Not that bad, Lyric thought sourly two hours later as she pulled on her clothing with shaking hands. That was a fucking lie. The medic had treated her like a fucking dog, worse than a fucking dog, she amended to herself, because at least vets liked dogs. The man did not like women. He had spoken only to Dove, and only then reluctantly, and had uttered orders that Dove had repeated to Lyric, her voice stern but her eyes pleading with Lyric to comply.

He had taken several vials of blood, and then ordered her to urinate, tapping his nails against the tabletop impatiently whilst she had stood and looked at the metal bed pan in disbelief.

“Pee,” Dove had told her.

“I can’t just fucking pee on demand. I’m not a fucking tap,” Lyric had retorted.

“Please try,” Dove had mouthed the words.

“Fuck. Privacy? No,” Lyric had grimaced. Of course, there would be no privacy. They expected her to squat and pee in front of them both, and damn it she had because know