Part
I:
Tristan put another Band-Aid around
his pinky finger, just in top of the other and then surveyed his hands.
Multi-colored Band-Aids were on
different angles on both of his hands, covering burns from his attempts to cook
a decent meal.
Cooking.
He grimaced slightly, and shrugged off the grumpiness. For an hour, he’d
been trying to cook and omelette – just an
omelette – with no hopeful results. The bin was full of egg shells and burnt
eggs. Domestic challenges didn’t agree with him.
He lifted his gaze to the mirror in
front of him, and noted with satisfaction that he looks like the doctor, not a guy who can’t cook to
save his life. Nobody would notice, surely. Everybody would be busy, as usual,
no matter what day it is; catastrophe has no schedule. Keeping his hands out of
sight will be an easy job.
30 minutes later
“Oh my. Doc, what happened to your hands?”
Tristan forced a good-natured smile,
and somehow managed to nail it. He was never going to cook again.
“It’s nothing. Can I have the file of
Reeya? From the secure ward, number 572?” The nurse only nodded, and gave him a
white folder. She was one of the nurses last night who had to restrain Hamilton
and now she glanced with worry as Tristan walked away, the folder in hand. What
if he got more injuries adding to those on his hands?
As the doctor walked past and smiled
his goodmorning at the friends he saw, he was optimistic about today. It was
day one; a new beginning of sorts.
He took a right to the men’s bathroom
and put the folder on the pristine white counter, making sure the place is dry.
Then he looked at his appearance.
A number of girls and women actually
said to him point-blank that he was drop-dead gorgeous, so Tristan guesses
he’ll just take their word for it. But he didn’t like to brag; he was a humble
person. He knew there were lots of more
attractive men than him around.
He removed the bandages, which didn’t
do him much good anymore, and washed his hands. He didn’t even glance at his
profile. His high cheekbones, full lips, hair as dark as midnight, and
perfectly chiseled nose were praised by many before but he never thought much of
it. He’s simply that kind of person. And even the ignorance of his own appeal
makes him all the more fascinating.
Part II:
Doctor Devon’s small desk he’d like to
call “office” is in a mess. As usual. He was sitting right in front of it with
a cup of hot coffee, his bandaged-again hands holding the folder. His room was
small, but unlike any other on the place. The walls were white like so many
other things in the facility, but his two-person couch was a blaze of topaz,
the shade almost the same as his eyes. Beside that was a small aquarium with
his goldfishes – Harry and Ron. Harry Potter always managed to enjoy him.
Everything was cool, and there were
also potted plants in the room. You would think it’s the perfect place for a
doctor – except the desk, but the said doctor’s mind was far from something so
mundane. From everything at all.
What
on earth?
He read the whole page again, under the mark Casualties.
It’s not just one whole page, there
were two.
Usually, the patients wouldn’t even
make it more than half a page but then this folder seemed to give him a slight
slap.
He already learned from Kate about the
nurse Reeya had given a concussion, and the one she tried to choke, but there
were others. Dozens of others.
She didn’t just try to choke someone
for just a single time, she did it twenty times. Twenty! He looked at the
latest entry and was taken aback at the date – just last night.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his
breath as he stood up, leaving the damned folder on his desk. He strode in the
direction of the door.
Everyone looked harried outside,
rushing to a particular patient who apparently had been cutting himself the
night before. Tristan wasn’t worried, seeing as there were very competent
doctors working on it, including his trusted friend, Gabriel.
He continued walking to the secure
ward and deposited all items to Mr. Johnson – with his crucifix this time – and
didn’t delay on anything. Before he knew it, he was barely five steps away from
572. He was just hurrying forward when an old nurse emerged from a door – the door – and spotted him instantly.
“Mrs. Hall, is everything okay?”
Tristan knew she had no trouble in
figuring out what he’s referring to, as she quickly replied, “I don’t think
this is a good time for you to visit.”
“What?” he asked, stepping forward.
“What do you mean?” he closed the space within the two of them, but he received
his answer in the instant he looked at Reeya through the small glass window on
the door.
One thing registered in his mind and
he was livid.
“Why is she in chains? What the – ”
“I told them you wouldn’t like it, but
even I had to agree.” Mrs. Hall looked at the person in question with an
intensely worried expression. “Today isn’t one of her best days.”
In a state of bewilderment, Tristan
looked at her again and saw that she was desperately trying to break free of
the chains; she was bound by her wrists to the hard metal of the bed, and even
from the outside, Tristan could hear the clinking of metal on metal. The same
thing is happening to her ankles, chained to the edges of the bed. She was able
to sit up, but her hair covered her face, making it invisible from view.
Tristan’s throat constricted, blocking
out his words. This isn’t right. Why
does it have to be like this?
Now he was lost. All approach he’d
thought of suddenly seemed feeble and certainly impossible to do.
“It would be best if you can calm her
down so she can eat. I left her a second tray of food.”
At what his companion said, his eyes
drifted to the fresh food, far from the bed as possible, and Tristan had no
doubt that Reeya had somehow toppled the first tray sent to her.
He smiled slightly at the kind woman
next to him and said two simple words that carried so much weight.
“Thank you.”
She nodded, gave a smile of her own,
and walked out of the ward.
Tristan breathed in hard and exhaled,
steeling himself before he got in.
It’s
day one, he reminded himself, a new
beginning of sorts.
He twisted the doorknob and got in slowly, sealing
the door shut behind him. Once she sensed someone else was inside, her attempts
to break free became more desperate and she trashed violently, whimpering. More
than anything, her scared voice stabbed at him.
“Reeya, I’m not going to hurt you –”
“No!
Stop choking me – stay away!” she was crying now, but anger lurked beneath
the surface. On the forefront was her desperation. Tristan couldn’t help
stepping forward, “No, I’m here to help – ”
“Stop
touching me! No, no – stop. Please!” she
shouted the word with such raw emotion that his heart seemed to leap out of his
ribcage. He panicked and went right in front of her, frantic to do something – anything
– that would ease her. But what?
“Reeya, please.
It’s Tristan. I won’t – ”
“Get away from me!” she shouted, “Please
stop that – stop touching me!”
His lips parted in confusion. He wasn’t
touching her at all. Then the answer hit him.
Of course. Bosnia.
“Stop! No, don’t!” she trashed, the
sound of metal was grinding on his ears as she shouted, her voice straining.
“Shh. Reeya, it’s me. Tristan
remember?” he said soothingly, but even his voice was shaking. He knelt by her
side, “I’m on your side.” She was sweating all over and the tears weren’t
helping. Strands of her hair was sticking to her face and neck and he couldn’t
help reaching out his hand to brush her hair away from her cheek.
She went still. Absolutely still. The
metals stopped clanking and she faced him, eyes wide. His brow creased
worriedly, his hand remaining on her skin, “Reeya – ”
She shook her head, “No – don’t choke
me. I’m so sorry. I don’t – don’t touch me again, please. It hurt.” Tears were
falling freely from her terrified eyes and blood dripped from her lip from
biting.
Tristan was beside himself. “Shh.
Please, don’t cry. I won’t hurt you, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.” But he
knew the battle was lost when the tears stopped, and her whole body started to
shake. She started to look at him as if expecting him to slice her throat.
His voice barely above a whisper this
time, he said again, “No. I won’t let anything hurt you. I’m here for you, do
you understand that?” he stroke her cheek with his thumb to soothe her, but it
only seemed to get worse.
“I – I – Please stop.” She whispered
back, close to breaking down again, “I’m so tired. I can’t do it anymore.”
Not knowing what to do, and feeling
repulsively useless, Tristan sighed. He dropped his hand and stood up.
Not
over, he promised himself, not yet.
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