The antiseptic smell of the clinic burns my nostrils as I sit on the uncomfortable plastic chair, trying not to stare at Summer's exposed chest. The spade tattoos stand out stark and black against her pale skin. Eleven permanent reminders of everything we're trying to erase. Each one representing a night I wasn't there, a choice that broke us, a moment I failed her, or she failed me, or we both failed each other.
"Are you nervous?" I ask, my voice bouncing off the sterile white walls of the procedure room. We've been waiting for fifteen minutes, but it feels like hours.
Summer shakes her head, sitting perfectly straight on the examination table, her shirt folded neatly beside her. She doesn't attempt to cover herself, doesn't seem to care that she's half-naked in this clinical setting. Her eyes meet mine with that unsettling intensity that's become so familiar.
"No," she says firmly. "This is part of my punishment."
Something twists in my gut at her words. "Summer, stop thinking in terms like that. This isn't about punishment."
"No." Her voice is quiet but immovable, like a mountain that refuses to be worn down. "It is punishment. It has to be."
I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the uncomfortable tightness in my jeans. There's something deeply wrong about being aroused in this moment, but my body responds to her nakedness with Pavlovian predictability despite the context.
"The pain is necessary," she continues, her eyes never leaving mine. "I need to feel it burn away what I did to you."
Before I can respond, the door swings open and a woman in a white lab coat strides in. Dr. Prost, according to the embroidered name on her pocket, glances down at her clipboard, then looks up with a professional smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"What have we got today?" she asks brightly, moving toward Summer with practiced efficiency.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat as the doctor approaches, her gaze traveling across Summer's exposed chest. She studies the tattoos with clinical interest, her head tilting slightly.
"Spades, huh?" Dr. Prost remarks, one eyebrow arching. "Big gambler?"
Summer's face remains perfectly expressionless. "Something like that," she says flatly.
Dr. Prost moves her attention to Summer's arm, her eyes catching on the stark "BBC" tattoo with the black rose beneath it. She whispers the letters under her breath, then brightens.
"Oh! You're a Doctor Who fan," she says, her clinical demeanor softening.
Summer's eyes shut tight, her chest rising with a deep breath before she answers. "Yup," she says simply, the single word clipped and tense.
I squeeze Summer's hand as Dr. Prost wheels her stool to Summer's left side, positioning herself for better access to all the tattoos. She begins prepping the laser, checking settings on a small digital display.
"Which Doctor is your favorite?" Dr. Prost asks conversationally, clearly trying to put Summer at ease.
I watch Summer's face tighten. She knows nothing about Doctor Who. Her fingers squeeze mine with annoyed pressure.
"Well, you know," Summer says, her voice artificially light, "there's just so many good ones."
"We're big fans of Tennant," I interject lightly, jumping in to save her from the lie spiraling further.
Dr. Prost looks up with genuine enthusiasm. "Oh, that's nice. He was lovely."
"Do you watch?" I ask, hoping to keep the conversation away from Summer.
She nods, adjusting something on the laser. "Since I was a little girl." Her eyes take on a nostalgic gleam. "Tom Baker will always be my Doctor."
Summer's face transforms from blank to stormy in an instant.
"Please don't flirt with my husband," she says, her voice cutting through the room like ice breaking.
Dr. Prost blinks rapidly, clearly caught off guard. Her mouth opens in surprise before curving into an awkward smile.
"Oh! You're funny," she laughs, but it sounds hollow against the sudden tension in the room.
Summer doesn't laugh. Doesn't smile. Just stares at the doctor with that unnerving intensity I've come to recognize as a warning sign.
"Okay," Dr. Prost says, her professional demeanor sliding back into place as she clears her throat. "This is going to sting quite a lot, and we have a lot to get through, so just hang in there and tell me if you need a break." She adjusts her position on the stool, laser device poised above Summer's skin. "And please, no moving during the procedure."
"I'm ready," Summer replies, her eyes fixed forward with fierce determination. Her hand finds mine again, fingers interlacing with bruising force.
Dr. Prost begins the treatment, the laser making a sharp clicking sound as it connects with Summer's skin. I watch her face for signs of pain, but she remains eerily stoic, only the whitening of her knuckles against mine betraying any discomfort.
The sharp smell of burning ink fills the small room as the laser continues its work. Each click seems to echo against the white walls, creating a strange rhythm that matches my heartbeat. Summer's breathing stays measured and controlled, almost meditative in its steadiness.
I watch the laser's red beam hit the spade tattoo, creating a bizarre effect as it works. Each pulse seems to lift Summer's skin slightly, creating a textured pattern that reminds me of scales or tiny ripples across water. The transformation is both fascinating and disturbing.
Summer's expression has changed completely. Her eyes have taken on a hardened, distant look, the thousand-yard stare of someone preparing for battle. Her jaw is set, nostrils flaring slightly with each controlled breath.
After the second spade receives treatment, Dr. Prost pauses, her voice gentler than before. "You're doing remarkably well. Most patients need a break by now."
Summer's lips curve into something that's not quite a smile. "This pain is nothing," she says, her voice hollow yet somehow burning with intensity. "Nothing compared to what I did to my husband's heart."
I feel my chest tighten at her words, uncomfortable with her public confession in this sterile room. "Summer," I whisper.
Her eyes flash to mine, fierce and uncompromising. "Let me focus," she hisses through clenched teeth. "I need to feel every second of this."
Dr. Prost clears her throat, clearly pretending she didn't hear the exchange. She adjusts something on the laser and continues with the third tattoo. Summer's hand squeezes harder, but she doesn't make a sound. Not a whimper, not a gasp. Just that same controlled breathing, like she's meditating through the pain.
"The first treatment is always the most difficult," Dr. Prost says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "You'll notice some fading within a few weeks, but it takes multiple sessions for complete removal."
For the next thirty minutes, I witness Summer's transformation through pain. Dr. Prost works methodically, the laser clicking against each tattoo with relentless precision. Every spade, the BBC letters, even the black rose beneath them, all subjected to the burning beam that promises to erase what Summer calls her shame.
Not once does Summer cry out. Her hand crushes mine with each pulse of the laser, but her face remains a mask of determined serenity, as if she's transcending the pain through sheer willpower. Occasionally, I catch her eyes fluttering closed, her lips moving in what might be a silent prayer or perhaps a mantra. Whatever it is, it carries her through.
Dr. Prost remains focused, professional, though I notice she's stopped trying to make conversation after Summer's earlier hostility.
As Dr. Prost finishes up, Summer's eyes open, that eerie calm still present. "When can I come back for the next treatment?"
"Eight weeks," Dr. Prost answers, reaching for a tube of cream. "Your skin needs time to heal between sessions."
I watch as she applies a thick layer of antibiotic ointment to each treated area, her movements gentle and practiced. The angry red skin surrounding each tattoo makes Summer look like she's been through some bizarre ritual, which I suppose she has.
"This will help with healing and prevent infection," Dr. Prost explains, sealing the cream with clear bandages that make Summer's skin appear plastic-wrapped. "Keep these on until tomorrow morning, then you can remove them. Gentle cleansing after that, and moisturize frequently."
Summer nods, studying the bandages with detached interest.
"Any questions?" Dr. Prost asks, peeling off her gloves.
Summer slides off the examination table, reaching for her clothes. "No," she says, her voice soft but decisive. "I think we've covered everything."
I watch as she selects a stretchy black tube top from her bag, carefully pulling it over her head. She adjusts it with deliberate movements, making sure the fabric sits well above the treated areas, leaving the bandaged tattoos completely exposed as to not agitate them.
"I'll see you in eight weeks, Doc."