Game of Choice

Eve's POV

The subway car rattles like a dying washing machine, and I dig my nails into the plastic seat. The morning rush hour stinks of cheap cologne and desperation, a familiar miasma that clings to my clothes like second skin. I check my watch for the hundredth time—6:57 a.m. Three minutes until my shift starts, and I'm still three stops from Memorial Hospital.

When I finally burst through the hospital's double doors, sweat trickling down my back, the head nurse, corners me in the hallway.

"Eve Cheney! Room 402 needs fresh linens, and Dr. Mann wants his charts prepped by eight." Her eyes rake over my wrinkled scrub top.

"And fix your hair and clothes! You look like you've been fucked by three wild men."

Damn it, taking the morning rush hour subway, how could it be just three strange men fucking me? Now that the people on the subway have had enough, it's the hospital people's turn to fuck me.

But I plaster on a smile that feels like it's been stapled to my face. "Right away!" My sneakers squeak on the linoleum as I dash toward the supply closet. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a sickly glow over the stacks of scratchy sheets. I grab an armful, my mind already racing through the day's to - do list.

In the locker room, the chatter of my colleagues hits me like a wave. The younger nurses are huddled by the lockers, their makeup flawless despite the early hour. After all, they haven't entered into marriage and family life yet, they have plenty of free time.

"I mean, can you believe they assigned The Three Musketeers for book club? It's so... 17th century." There was a girl carefully adjusting her mask so as not to ruin her hairstyle.

Another one snorts, applying a fresh coat of lipstick. "At least it's not War and Peace. Did you know Pushkin died in a duel? Shot with a musket, just like in those old novels."

"According to my dating schedule, tonight at least three groups of men are going to shoot each other."

"You dirty bitch," Girls giggled.

I keep my head down, shoving my street clothes into my locker. I can't afford to get lost in idle chatter. Not when I have three more patients to check on before rounds.

What a day!

The morning devolves into a blur of bedpans, IV drips, and endless complaints. Mr. Jenkins in Room 312 throws his breakfast tray at me, oatmeal splattering across my scrubs.

"This gruel tastes like dishwater!" he bellows, his face turning purple. I grit my teeth and clean up the mess, biting back the retort that threatens to spill out.

After making rounds, I still have to attend to other patients. Every single one of them is extremely difficult to take care of—I suspect they all suffer from bipolar disorder; otherwise, how could they be so good at yelling at people?

Just when I think the shift can't get any worse, Dr. Mann appears. His cologne, a cloying mix of sandalwood and arrogance, precedes him into the room.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite ray of sunshine," he purrs, blocking my path to the door. His eyes linger on my chest, gaze pierced through to my tits, it was like a visual rape. "How about dinner tonight? My treat."

I force a laugh that sounds more like a dying cough. "I'm flattered, Dr. Mann, but I have plans." His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist. "Come on, Eve. Don't be so uptight."

I yank my arm free, my heart pounding in my ears. "I said no." My voice shakes, but I hold my ground. He scowls, muttering something under his breath as he stalks away.

I really don't know why this scum likes harassing me so much. I'm a 35-year-old single mother, worn out from years of hard work, and the beauty of my youth has long since faded.

Maybe this bastard just enjoys seeing others submit to him. I suppose he's fantasized many times about me begging him to fuck me while kneeling on all fours.

But it's impossible. I certainly lack money and live an austere life, but I won't become a prostitute for some cash.

What's annoying though is that I can't just slap him in the face either, because if I hit him, I'll definitely lose my job.

"So, fuck it." I sighed and continued working.

When the clock finally strikes 5 p.m., I practically run to the locker room. I peel off my stained scrubs, eager to shed the day's grime and humiliation.

Outside, the city is a concrete jungle, the sun beating down on the pavement. I walk the familiar route to Fire & Fang, the neon sign a beacon of hope in the sea of monotony.

Today has been really tough. I really need a drink, otherwise there's a pile of annoying things waiting for me when I get home. Without this drink, I don't know how I'll make it through.

As I push open the door, the smell of bourbon and cigarette smoke washes over me. Tina looks up from behind the bar, her red bandana askew.

"Rough day?" she asks, already pouring my usual—a double of Jack Daniel's on the rocks.

I collapse onto a stool, the leather cool against my thighs. "You have no idea," I groan, rubbing my temples. “Mr. Jenkins tried to hit me with a bedpan, and Dr. Mann... " I trail off, shuddering.

Tina's eyes flash with anger. "That sleazeball. If I ever see him—" She reaches under the bar and pulls out a baseball bat, slamming it down on the counter. The sound makes the drunk in the corner jump. "I'll teach him a lesson he won't forget."

I manage a weak smile. "As much as I'd love to see that, I can't afford to lose my job. No job means no health insurance, and without my meds..."

"Oh, my God," I sighed.

"Hey, don't talk like that first. Life is like rape; you either endure it or enjoy it. So let's have another drink," Tina persuaded.

Tina slides another drink toward me.

"This one on me. " She said.

"You're too good for that place, Eve. One of these days, you're gonna get out of there."

I raised my glass to her. "Thanks, sis," and then I downed it.

I take a long sip, the whiskey burning a path down my throat. It numbs the ache in my chest, if only for a little while.

When I finally leave the bar, the sun has set, and the streets are cast in an eerie orange glow.

My apartment building looms ahead, a dilapidated concrete block in a sea of rundown buildings. The lobby smells of mildew and cat urine, and the elevator has been broken for three weeks. I trudge up the stairs, my legs heavy with exhaustion.

As I unlock the door, the stench of marijuana hits me like a punch in the face.

Jesus! Again!

"Vicky!" I shout, dropping my keys on the rickety kitchen table.

The living room is a mess—clothes strewn everywhere, empty pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table. There were also a few opened condoms. Heavens! Who knows which jerk she's messed around with again!

"Vicky!"

My daughter lounges on the couch, a joint between her fingers. Her black nail polish is chipped, and there's a new tattoo snaking up her forearm.

"Hey, Mom," she drawls, blowing a cloud of smoke in my direction.

I storm over and snatch the joint from her hand, crushing it under my shoe. "How many times do I have to tell you? Not in this house!"

I snatched the joint from her. She flinched, and a crumpled poster lying beside her on the couch slid to the floor.

It's blue - green, with the words "Eden Game" in bold. But I really don't care about that damn poster.

Vicky rolls her eyes. "God, you're such a buzzkill. It's just weed. You're always so uptight."

I feel the anger rising, a red - hot tide threatening to engulf me. “Uptight? I have every right to be! You're 15 years old, smoking pot, skipping school—"

"Oh, so now you care about my life?" she interrupts, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Where were you when I needed you? Working double shifts, drowning your sorrows at the bar-"

"Don't you dare!" I yell, my voice echoing off the peeling walls. "I work to keep a roof over our heads, to put food on the table. And this is how you repay me?"

Vicky jumps to her feet, her face inches from mine. "You're just like Dad—always too busy for me. At least he's not here to judge me anymore!"

The words hit me like a sledgehammer.

"Don't you ever talk about your father like that!" I scream, my vision blurring with tears. "He loved you more than anything, and you—"

You only love yourselves! If you loved me, you wouldn't have brought me into this world! Vicky shouted.

Vicky reaches over and grabs the framed family photo off the table. With a scream, she hurls it against the wall. Glass shatters, and the image of our happy family lies in pieces on the floor.

"I hate you!" she screeches, before storming out of the apartment, slamming the door so hard the walls shake.

I sink to my knees, sobs racking my body. The broken glass cuts into my skin, but I barely feel it. The silence in the apartment is deafening, a void that swallows me whole.

I pick up a shard of glass, looking at the fragmented image of my husband's face. Five years ago, he was taken from us by cancer, and ever since then, the family was shattered into pieces.

Now, as I sit surrounded by the wreckage of our family, I wonder how much more I can take.

The bills pile up, my health deteriorates, and my daughter slips further away with each passing day.

The blue-green poster on the floor was crumpled into a pile; I kicked it aside and plopped down on the sofa. I stared at the ceiling, my body immobilized by reality's heavy gravity, unable to move.

"Fuck, where is this Garden of Eden? it's totally bullshit." I sighed deeply, sitting in my dimly lit home, utterly exhausted.