Faggot

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains depictions of homophobia and emotional distress. Please proceed with caution.

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Enzo's POV

The hospital was unusually calm today—no frantic emergencies, no chaotic traumas—just a few minor surgeries and the low hum of routine procedures. The nurses moved with measured efficiency, and even the ER, usually a hotbed of unpredictability, seemed subdued. Still, I dared not voice my relief aloud. Experience had taught me that tempting fate would only invite disaster, and the universe had a way of balancing the scales in the cruelest ways.

I had just finished reviewing charts for my next patient when a dull ache in my temples reminded me how long it had been since my last break. I decided to step away for a moment, heading toward the restroom in the far corridor. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a sterile glow over the pristine white walls. The scent of antiseptic and faint traces of coffee clung to the air, a familiar mix of comfort and exhaustion.

As I neared a secluded corner near the staff lounge, I slowed my steps. Low voices, hushed but sharp-edged, drifted toward me. I recognized the speakers instantly—two nurses, both seasoned enough to know better, yet never ones to pass up an opportunity for gossip. Their postures were tight, their words clipped with malice.

"Did you see them today?" one of them sneered, her voice thick with disgust.

"Hard to miss," the other replied, with a derisive chuckle. "He rode to work with Dr. Olivier this morning. Imagine that—showing up together like it's something to be proud of."

"Shameless," the first nurse spat. "Trying to get in his good graces, no doubt. Like a man like Dr. Olivier would ever want anything to do with him. A faggot."

The slur hit the air like a slap, and my stomach twisted violently. My pulse thudded in my ears, and my breath caught in my throat. I stayed hidden, pressing my back against the cool wall, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. Every instinct screamed at me to step forward, to say something—anything—but I remained frozen.

I forced in a slow breath, but the tension in my chest refused to ease. The walls of the hospital suddenly felt suffocating, and the sterile air carried an acrid sting. I'd spent years pretending moments like this didn't affect me, convincing myself that words held no real power.

But that was a lie.

And deep down, I knew it always had been.

"But don't you think Dr. Olivier might actually be into him?" the other nurse mused. "Why else would he be smiling at him like that? Why would he waste his time picking him up?"

"Can't you see?" the first one scoffed. "Dr. Olivier is just pitying him. That disgusting little leech keeps throwing himself at him, acting all coy and innocent. What a fraud."

Their words struck me like a blade, twisting deep, bringing forth echoes of a voice from my past—my father's voice.

You're a mistake.

You're a fag.

I wish you were never my son.

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat, trying to block out the memories, but their voices carried on, relentless.

"Dr. Olivier is so kind. He'd make the perfect husband. But that homosexual has bewitched him. I pray he sees him for who he truly is—a fake, attention-seeking gold digger."

My vision blurred with unshed tears. I wasn't supposed to let their words affect me. I had built walls—thick, impenetrable walls—but somehow, they found the cracks. Before they could see my anguish, I turned on my heel and rushed into the restroom, slamming the door behind me.

I gripped the edges of the sink, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps. No matter how hard I tried to blink them away, the tears streamed freely, hot and unrelenting.

Could they be right?

Doubt crept in, insidious and cruel.

What if Dr. Olivier is only with me out of pity? What do I even have to offer?

He is a renowned medical professional—respected, admired. And me? What am I? Nothing. Nothing compared to him. And he isn't even gay… is he?

I stood in the dimly lit restroom for what felt like hours, sobbing until my chest ached and my eyes swelled. The shift change came and went, but no one paged me. No one came looking for me. When it was finally time to leave, I composed myself as best as I could, wiped the remnants of my sorrow from my face, and signed out.

I didn't wait for Dr. Olivier.

I refused to.

If he was only going out with me because he pitied me, I would never forgive him.

I took the bus home, my body heavy with exhaustion, my mind restless. The moment I stepped off at my stop, an eerie sensation prickled at my skin. I felt eyes on me. My pulse quickened, but when I turned, the street was empty—silent but for the occasional rustling leaves. I searched, scanning the area, but saw no one.

Maybe I was imagining things.

Too drained to care, I gave up and hurried inside. As soon as I shut the door behind me, I threw my bag onto the floor, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed onto the bed. The tears came again, unbidden, and I let them. The weight of the day, the words, the memories—everything crashed down on me, and I cried myself to sleep.

I woke to the sensation of a hand brushing against my cheek, warm and firm, wiping away the traces of my tears. My eyes fluttered open, but the room was cloaked in darkness.

I must have slept through the evening.

A voice, deep and smooth, cut through the silence.

"Why did you cry?"

My body tensed.

That voice.

The same one from last night.

The man who had broken into my house.

My heart pounded against my ribs as I tried to push myself up. "What do you want?" I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying.

"I saw you were upset." His tone was calm, almost soothing. "I came to check on you. Tell me who made you cry, and I'll make them all pay."

A shiver ran down my spine.

"It's none of your business." I swallowed hard, searching the darkness. "Who are you? What do you want from me?"

My fingers fumbled for the switch on my nightstand, desperate to illuminate the room, to see the intruder's face. But before I could reach it, a strong hand grabbed my wrist, yanking me back down.

In an instant, his weight pressed me against the mattress, his body firm and unyielding.

Trapped beneath him, my breath hitched.

The darkness swallowed us whole.