Forced to Heal, but I'm Actually a Forensic Doctor
As I walk out of the emergency room, a woman rushes over to me.
"You're a doctor, right? My son scraped his knee. Hurry up and come treat him!"
I am about to explain, but she glares at me and questions indignantly, "Isn't a doctor supposed to save people? You have time to slack off, but you have no time to treat my son's wound. Is that it?"
She grabs my collar and drags me toward the ward.
I try to explain, "Ma'am, I’m not—"
But she doesn't listen at all and slaps me across the face. "Not what? Are you blind? Can't you see my son is bleeding? Instead of helping my son, you treat those poor nobodies! If you keep delaying my son's treatment, I won't let you off!
"Get on your knees and apologize to him right now! Otherwise, I'll file a complaint and have your license revoked!"
I endure the sharp pain and struggle to lift my head. In my five years of practicing medicine, this is the first time I have ever been complained about by a living person.
"It's not that I won't treat him. I am a forensic pathologist..."