AN: Kina's rant and Tasear who Pm'ed with a quick review me, both made me realise this isn't actually a Prologue. Therefore I will be changing the title to reflect upon this. Treat it as a side story of the MC's origins if you will.
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D0C1 - Beginnings (Part I)
“Congratulations, you are now in the land of the dead. My name is $&@% and I am your guide. This is the waiting room of the "in-between", we have no official name for it. Your memories of your death should be returning shortly. I will return once you have absorbed them."
I wake upon hearing that. To be honest, it didn't quite fit with the image I was seeing at the moment. I was expecting a devil, with horns and spiky tail, you know, the whole package and whatnot. Instead what I got was beautiful office lady looking all professional, congratulating me for being dead.
Although I say office lady, it was more like a teenager in a woman’s suit. Whilst she wasn't the devil, she sure was devilish. If I were not dead, I would’ve jumped at the chance to ask her out for dinner, but alas, I am dead.
Yep, that’s me, a 26 year old genius doctor.
Are you sure you’re not a delusional intern? To that I would reply Yes, I’m sure. 26 is rather young, I admit, but the calculations are correct. I finished my IB diploma at 16, thanks to my 43 and my parents connections it was then off to John Hopkins for 4 years of undergrad. After that followed 4 years of med school. Two years as an intern and 9 months for the surgical license.
And here I am, the so called “genius” of the medical world. To be fair, I would attribute only 20% of my genius to my talent. 40% would go to my being raised by a family of doctors and nurses, 20 more to my exceptional spatial awareness and 20 to my amazing memory.
Well, not that amazing, compared to those with eclectic memory, my “quick study” of using mnemonics is just tiny. Nevertheless with that technique, I was able to sail through my medical exam with a relatively fair wind. Storms? Nah, I assure you, you're dreaming. My scores were enough to get me noticed and with the connections my parent had, I was able to enter the John Hopkins Hospital as an intern.
Once there, I worked as an intern for 2 years, before a certain doctor noticed the ridiculous speed of my continuous suture technique. Of course, with the medical limitations, I still had to finish my time as an intern before I was allowed anywhere near a real table. So instead he took me under his wing, I was trained relentlessly.
On the fast track, it wasn’t long until I got my license. My first few surgeries went extremely well. Of course with my speed and accuracy it was a given. After all, the less time a patient is under, the less chance there is of something going wrong. And with my spacial awareness, I could perform extremely well. So maybe the fame got to me a bit, but I never let my guard down. I practiced my technique to become even better. I eventually got the nickname “Hands of God”.
Of course, that leads to the question of why I am dead. Well, you know what they say, the higher you are, the harder you fall. It all had to do with a certain fatass. Even if I am dead, I still respect my oaths and doctor-patient confidentiality, so I will not name the ass.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
However, that does not stop me from cursing his mother. You see, what happen was that he had wealth, wealth and CAD, also known as Coronary Artery Disease. The fat fuck ruined his left ventricle with all those carbs and sugars, leaving him with LV dysfunction. His condition was so advanced that he was going to fall on his fat ass dead at any time.
Normally, with such conditions, no hospital or doctor would even think about accepting responsibility for him. The risk of failure was extremely high so no doctor or hospital would want a table casualty on record. And so, he was rejected, one after another he was rejected until he happened upon my hospital.
Using his wealth, he pressured the hospital board into accepting and treating him. The board, with their unending confidence in me, caved in so fast, their decision was faster that the speed of light. Not that I didn't expect it, money always persuades greed.
This is where it gets worse, ventriculoplasty is not an easy or quick procedure by any means, so when a doctor recommends a procedure, it is because that procedure is the best option.
But no, the fat fuck thought of himself as an expert on surgery. Hmph, he probably didn't even know what the “Jenkins Rule” was, let alone surgery. I wanted to do SVR or Surgical Ventricular Restoration but instead of following advice, he insisted on the Batista procedure. At this point I was mad, the procedure was not as efficient as other procedures, to the point where it was dropped out of the U.S heart guidelines.
Yet he still insisted upon it. Once again, using his money he coerce the hospital board into forcing me to perform the procedure. So I did. Quick and fast, I was able to finish it just under 2 hours. It was a success and the fatass was fine for a month and a half.
Then he suffered SCA (Sudden Cardiac Arrest) and flatlined. Still, I had done all I could so my conscience was whiter than my bathroom walls. But because he was my patient, I was brought under investigation despite the fact that my surgery succeeded. After all, he paid a lot to become one of the hospitals VIP. Fucking hospital politics.
At any rate, I was cleared soon enough because I had the foresight to record him denying my recommendation for the safer SVA and instead go for the more risky BP. With proof of the success of my surgery and his refusal to accept the medical recommendation of a licensed doctor, I was able to get away relatively scot-free.
That was when I died. Shot point blank to the head. Before my death, my murderer was kind enough to enlighten me as to why I had to die.
Turns out the fat fucker had set a dead man’s switch. If he died, a certain organisation was supposed to ensure my demise. And now, I was dead. Fuck me. Mankind truly are scum.