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..."

I had just finished reading the deceased patient's treatment report, and all I wanted was to get back to the lounge and collapse onto the bed.

But as I turned the corner, a figure suddenly lunged in front of me and grabbed my arm.

"You! You! Stop right there!"

I froze at the abrupt shout.

Looking up, I saw a woman, perfectly made-up and decked out in designer clothes, holding out her hands to block me.

"You're a doctor, right? My son scraped his knee and is bleeding badly! You need to come with me and treat him now!"

Before I could respond, she tried to drag me toward the treatment room.

I had stayed up all night performing an autopsy, and so I was both mentally and physically exhausted. All I wanted was some rest.

As a forensic pathologist, I wasn't even licensed to treat living patients.

I waved my hands, trying to explain.

"Ma'am, I…"

She cut me off sharply. "You're wearing a white coat, so aren't you a doctor? I saw you just standing there, doing nothing. You're clearly slacking! What? You have time to play with your phone but not to bandage my son?"

Then, she tugged at my coat, her face full of disdain. "Doctors are supposed to save lives! My son's leg is injured, and you just stand there? Do you want him to die?"

Her barrage left my mind blank.

"Ma'am, I understand your concern, but your son's wound really needs another doctor. I can't help you."

I thought I had phrased it politely enough, but her eyes narrowed, and suddenly she shoved me hard.

I stumbled back, my back slamming against the wall.

"I'm telling you, treat my son's wound right now!"

I steadied myself, feeling my chest aching. Even though I was usually patient, my anger boiled over at this moment.

"Sorry, I can't."

I refused her outright and reached for my phone to call the hospital director.

At that, Florence Crater's anger flared instantly. "Say that again?"

She stepped forward, grabbed my collar, and yanked violently.

"You're wearing a white coat, so healing the sick is your duty, yet you dare to pick and choose?"

With a tearing sound, a button popped off my coat. In the struggle, my phone slipped to the floor.

Before I could react, she raised her hand and slapped me across the face with a loud smack.

My cheek burned, and my ears started ringing. I wobbled, almost unable to stand.

Still furious, Florence dragged me along by my collar.

"You brat! How dare you glare at me? I told you to bandage my son's wound, and you refuse!"

Her shouting immediately drew the attention of patients and family members nearby.

"My son is worth more than gold! Do you think you can compensate me enough if his treatment is delayed? I'm telling you, you have no medical ethics if you don't save my son! You're a heartless doctor. You should have your license revoked and fired from this hospital!"

Covering my face, I fought the sharp sting and humiliation as I struggled to lift my head.

I had been practicing medicine for five years, but this was the first time someone alive had filed a complaint against me.

At her irrational behavior, the anger I had been holding in finally exploded.

"I only manage the dead! How am I supposed to treat your son?"