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Quote from the story/poem here. Mistakes will be in bold and numbered.

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It was a perfectly ordinary evening 1. ; playing the guinea pig for a nurse-in-training. I had promised to help her with practising her 2. nursing skills, specifically intravenous therapy. She came over with a bag full of nursing supplies.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” 3. she said with an awkward smile.

“Of course! I’m perfectly fine with it,” I said. There was really nothing to be afraid of. 4. Heck, it’s only a measly IV, and I’ve had many before in the hospital. She sat down and started organizing the contents of the bag. The alcohol pads, the tourniquet, the syringes, the needles, and 5.a box of tissues...? Well, whatever. I positioned my left hand on the table.

“So I’m going to need to apply the tourniquet slightly below the elbow area. Squeeze your hand into a fist, and tell me if the strap is on too tight,” she said as she wrapped the rubber strap around my arm and 6. does a quick but complicated knot.

“Nurses have to tie the strap in a special way,” she said. With a quick stroke of her thumb, the knot came undone in an instant.

“Oh, I see,” I said. “That’ll come in handy in case anything goes wrong.”

“Yep, just in case,” she laughed unnaturally.

“When I got my flu shot, the nurse tied it much higher on my arm, closer to the bicep area. "Why do you have to tie it below my elbow?"

“Well, I’m going to jab the area near the wrist. That’s where most IVs go.”

“Oh. Well, good luck!” I said. She tied the tourniquet around my arm once again. I couldn’t feel the pull of elasticity against my skin. “It’s way too loose!”

“Whoops, my bad. Okay, I’ll redo it.” She redid the knot with her nimble fingers. That was way too fast for my tired eyes to follow…

“Okay now, it so tight it hurts a lot,” I could feel the burn of rubber stretching the hairs off their roots beneath my skin.

“Oh, okay. Umm, that’s… not so good,” She redid it the fourth time and this time, it wasn’t much better than before, but I politely ignored it. She began to unpack the syringes from their plastic packaging. Usually, when I get flu shots or IVs in the hospital, I don’t look. 7. Anybody who looks at the needle while it slowly penetrates the thin layer of skin is just putting unneeded and excess anxiety on themselves.

“Are you almost ready?” I said after a minute or two. I could feel the strap tightening around my arm, reddening due to the lack of blood flow. The pain was getting more and more uncomfortable.

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“Okay...” The situation was tense. I bet she doesn’t know what she’s doing… But that’s probably why she’s practicing by poking needles into me…right?

“It’s going in now,” she warned, as she positioned the needle millimetres away from my wrist.

“Go for it,” I braced, expecting some sort of sharp pain in my wrist. I cringed for a few more moments, but I felt no pain.

“Ah, Dammit. I can’t position the needle precisely. Give me a moment,” She readjusted her posture on the chair. I looked at the needle, which was hovering dangerously above my wrist. She was shaking subtly. I couldn’t find the words to help her, so I simply stayed still. Suddenly, the needle poked me out of the blue, and the pain made my entire body tense. But it was only momentary, as I felt the thin blade of metal glide out of the fresh wound.

“What, what’s wrong?” I inquired.

“I missed.” she said as she looked into my eyes, 1. almost in a pleading gesture. I thought this was gonna be a breeze…

“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t mind if you try again.”

“Okay...” she said. She stabbed me again, while I was watching. 2. That totally missed…

“I can’t get it!” 3. she whined.

“Are you shaking? Are you too nervous?” I said. Comforting others isn’t my forte.

“Yeah, this is a little hard.” She said. We exchanged nervous glances.

“Well, I’m sure you can do it, you’re smart…” I was attempting to reassure her by any means.

“Okay! I’m trying again.” she said. I felt the needle go in... and out again.

“Just ignore me. I’m an ordinary patient in an ordinary hospital, waiting for an ordinary procedure and an ordinary injection.” I said. “Try as many times as you need to,” She didn’t hesitate to continue to poke me… maybe around 4. 10 times. Trust me, it’s not just slightly awkward getting poked so many times.

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“Umm, there’s too many holes in your left wrist now, and the strap has been tied around your arm for too long,” she said. I could feel the pain of poor blood circulation from the over tightened strap that I ignored earlier. I saw the little dots of blood forming above the tiny punctured lacerations on my left hand…

“Well, can I do anything to help you out?” I asked.

“It must be uncomfortable for your left hand… Give me your right hand 1. instead!,” she said with bright enthusiasm, as if my left hand was the cause of her poor performance so far. I repositioned my chair so that my right arm was on the table. She quickly tied the strap on this time, too tight again.

“The vein on the left wrist is too small, and I keep missing. So I’m going to use your right hand,” she explained.

“Okay...good luck...” I said.

“Wow, there’s a big vein here. Your right hand is a lot better.” She said, pointing the engorged area to me.

“Wow, that’s definitely a great place to poke,” I said jokingly.

She poked me. It didn’t feel like a joke…

She poked me, again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

“Are you missing?” I asked. I looked at the needle, covered with my own blood.

“Yea, sorry!” she apologized nervously. I could see her unsteady hand coming in to poke me again.

It missed.

She tried again. It missed again, puncturing my skin in an 2. unimportant elsewhere.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her. I looked at her distressed face. Something wasn’t right. My sense of security began to deteriorate.

“I’m trying not to poke it into the bone, because that’s really bad,” she said, looking away when I glanced at her direction.

“Oh,” I said with a calm tone. To be honest, I was mentally restless.

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“That’s right, right?” she asked.

“What?” I laughed. I was internally questioning her nervousness. Why would she ask me whether or not she was doing the procedure right?

“It’s also really bad if I poke the needle into your skin too deep, because then you’ll bleed internally and die,” she said.

“Oh, wonderful,” I said. 1. I might actually die from this tonight…

“Okay, I’m going to try again, and if this doesn’t work, we’re going to stop here,” she said.

Just do it again, and do it right this time. The multiple pokes were really pushing my anxiety to the limit. Along with her wavering resolve and unsteady grip, it really wasn’t helping me hold onto the brink of sanity.

She stabbed me, yet again.

“It worked!”

I looked. Blood was flowing out rapidly, and it wasn’t into the syringe. It was flowing down, wrapping itself along the breadth of my arm. My blood dripped onto the hardwood floor.
“Oh. Wonderful! You finally got it!” I exclaimed. “Is the blood supposed to flow out of the syringe?” It was a rhetorical question of course. Anybody would know she was doing it wrong. I looked up and she was in distress. Sweat was dripping down her brow.

“Oh my gosh, get some tissues.”

“Umm, okay,” I said and I leaned over to get the tissues with my left hand. The needle that was still in my wrist went sideways and blood spurted out to the right. I instinctively panned the blood so that it wouldn’t dirty the floor.

“Ah! Umm… I think I did something wrong,” she said. She took the needle out and my blood started forming a large pool of red on my wrist. She took a cotton ball and applied pressure onto the punctured vein.

“You forgot to release the rubber strap!” I said. I could see my own blood flowing through the cotton ball.

Everything started to fade to black. I tried to fight against it, but my consciousness was slowly fading away.

“I think I’m fainting,” I said. I slumped in my chair.

“Oh... what?!” she said, but I could barely hear her through my weakening senses.

“I can’t move,” I said, barely audible. The last thing I saw was her arms around me, supporting me so I wouldn’t fall onto the ground.

Because of my sister, I’m a hemophobic now. This irrational fear is part of my shameful identity, which I’ll never be able to discard, ever.

2. Siblings are great aren’t they?