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Description
Iggy's hands shook as doubt and fear clouded his mind. It was Thursday and he hadn't taught once this week. Too many accidents, too much snow. He looked down at his table. A few interns watched from the observation chamber and he could sense them shuffling in anxiety as he hesitated, almost hear their voices.
He put down the scalpel and picked it up again, hiding the deep breath he took. He drew his focus to a scalpel sharp point and began his work, his hands steady once more. Everything had ran through his head in ten seconds, each feeling like an hour. Cut away dead tissues, piece together what he could, suture living tissues together. Like a darner of the flesh.
It was an art and Iggy was good at it. He was efficient, he was fast, he was clever and skilled, and still with the interns looking on above, he was brutally and painfully alone. Just him and this woman on the edge of death in this operating theater.
He was confident now, and even while monitoring vitals out of the corner of his eye, his hands didn't slip. Large hands, but capable of such fine work. Just shy of an hour, he finally called in the ICU team to take the patient away.
Iggy had no way of knowing if he'd been successful, not yet. He left the OR and began disrobing, finally removing his mask last. It was a little ritual he did, something to keep him the same.The mask was first on, last off. The staff fled at the sight of him. Iggy probably was a bit scary to look at; six and a half feet tall, large beer gut, stunning blue eyes that were fading with age and a sharp goatee as dark as his finger-length ebony hair. He didn't wear a white coat either, preferring a black suit.
He loosened his tie and sighed as he saw a group of interns flee in his wake. Ten years in prison, a year on the run and now he finally got to do the job he loved, and this was how he did it. Alone. Not because he chose to, but because they were afraid of him.
He headed to the cafeteria. Iggy then payed for a cup of coffee and fixed it the way he liked it: heavy on the cream, just a little sugar. Again people shifted uneasily as he stood there. Heading outside, he sipped his coffee. It woke him up. He'd been going on six hours since he'd had a break longer than ten minutes. Iggy pushed his way through the staff doors, and into the cold outside, setting his coffee on a bench as he lit a cigarette.
The coffee didn't wake him up nearly as much as that first drag did. Iggy closed his eyes, the stress was getting to him. He'd lost 7 pounds since Sunday. At two eighty-something he knew his body wasn't missing it, but his beer belly seldom got in his way. He'd only taken about 4 good drags before one of the nurses found him. "Dr. Jones, you're needed in OR 2." The nurse said.
Iggy sighed and nodded, flicking off the burning end of the cigarette and stowing it for later. No rest for the wicked. He thought with a laugh as he ran to scrub in, his steaming cup of coffee forgotten.

Description
Iggy's hands shook as doubt and fear clouded his mind. It was Thursday and he hadn't taught once this week. Too many accidents, too much snow. He looked down at his table. A few interns watched from the observation chamber and he could sense them shuffling in anxiety as he hesitated, almost hear their voices.
He put down the scalpel and picked it up again, hiding the deep breath he took. He drew his focus to a scalpel sharp point and began his work, his hands steady once more. Everything had ran through his head in ten seconds, each feeling like an hour. Cut away dead tissues, piece together what he could, suture living tissues together. Like a darner of the flesh.
It was an art and Iggy was good at it. He was efficient, he was fast, he was clever and skilled, and still with the interns looking on above, he was brutally and painfully alone. Just him and this woman on the edge of death in this operating theater.
He was confident now, and even while monitoring vitals out of the corner of his eye, his hands didn't slip. Large hands, but capable of such fine work. Just shy of an hour, he finally called in the ICU team to take the patient away.
Iggy had no way of knowing if he'd been successful, not yet. He left the OR and began disrobing, finally removing his mask last. It was a little ritual he did, something to keep him the same.The mask was first on, last off. The staff fled at the sight of him. Iggy probably was a bit scary to look at; six and a half feet tall, large beer gut, stunning blue eyes that were fading with age and a sharp goatee as dark as his finger-length ebony hair. He didn't wear a white coat either, preferring a black suit.
He loosened his tie and sighed as he saw a group of interns flee in his wake. Ten years in prison, a year on the run and now he finally got to do the job he loved, and this was how he did it. Alone. Not because he chose to, but because they were afraid of him.
He headed to the cafeteria. Iggy then payed for a cup of coffee and fixed it the way he liked it: heavy on the cream, just a little sugar. Again people shifted uneasily as he stood there. Heading outside, he sipped his coffee. It woke him up. He'd been going on six hours since he'd had a break longer than ten minutes. Iggy pushed his way through the staff doors, and into the cold outside, setting his coffee on a bench as he lit a cigarette.
The coffee didn't wake him up nearly as much as that first drag did. Iggy closed his eyes, the stress was getting to him. He'd lost 7 pounds since Sunday. At two eighty-something he knew his body wasn't missing it, but his beer belly seldom got in his way. He'd only taken about 4 good drags before one of the nurses found him. "Dr. Jones, you're needed in OR 2." The nurse said.
Iggy sighed and nodded, flicking off the burning end of the cigarette and stowing it for later. No rest for the wicked. He thought with a laugh as he ran to scrub in, his steaming cup of coffee forgotten.