Tristan
only slept for half an hour.
No one could possibly get more after hearing Gab’s
story. Words still repeated themselves inside Tristan’s ears. He did his very
best to ignore them.
“Here you go,” the plump woman said. She was in
charge of the archives of the hospital – all the records were in there; each
patient, their bio data, and illnesses. Their time of death is also included,
if the person is deceased. That’s why the area allocated for it is staggeringly
huge.
“Thank you,” Tristan replied. He requested access
earlier and got it immediately. Nobody really made a big deal about looking
into the files – unless you weren’t from the staff. If you aren’t, the archives
are virtually off-limits.
“You know, I can look up whatever it is you’re
looking for on the system and get the file number for you. Less trouble.”
“Oh, no. It’s okay. I can handle it, thank you.”
She held out the door for him and after giving him
one last, motherly smile, closed the door behind him.
Gedi Institute, same time
“He’s crossing the line.”
Manuel gulped. “Yes, he is, sir.” Sometimes, he
questioned whether being privy to the secretive life of the only son of the
city’s business tycoon was a privilege, or a burden. His trained eyes saw the
way his boss’ hands shook as he put down the imposing photos of the doctor
being close to his patient.
They were shaking from rage.
“Sir, I – ”
“When?”
“Almost two hours ago, sir.” he answered promptly.
He decided then on to keep his mouth shut, unless asked with a direct question.
“Where is he now?”
“The archives. Macquarie.”
The man behind the desk took a deep breath, and then
clenched his fist. Through gritted teeth, he said, “You may go now.”
Manuel wasn’t about to argue with that. Quick as a
flash, he went out of the office.
As soon as the older person exited the room, the
agitated man shot up from his chair and paced the length of the room.
He wanted nothing more than to wring Tristan Devon’s
neck for being too near. Too caring. No
one touches her. He vowed that a long, long time ago, and he wasn’t about
to break it now.
With Mediterranean blue eyes fired up in fury, he
planned on how to best let the doctor know the truth. And how he can never play
a part in it.
Macquarie archives, aisle 46, 15 minutes later
Something’s not right.
He had been searching for the surname Hamilton among
the uniformly labelled black boxes on the archives, and yet he came up with
nothing. At least, not the one he was looking for.
The place was a sprawling space covered with endless
racks with boxes arranged neatly according to the patients’ surname –
alphabetically, of course. Tristan bypassed A to G and was now staring
perplexedly at aisle 46.
Something’s not
right.
There were Hamiltons all right, but they were
outdated.
George Hamilton from 1998, Gwyneth Hamilton from 1995,
Sergeant Hamilton – there were dozens. Only one name kept running through his
mind.
Where are you?
It was highly unlikely they’d forgotten to record
her. That wouldn’t be following SOP and the hospital was renowned for its
impeccable organization. A glitch like this, if noticed, would be straightened
out in a blink of an eye.
If noticed.
Tristan felt it in his bones that it went deeper
than that, but the thought that the people in charge turning a blind eye over
this misinformation is baffling. Why not fix it? It’s such a small thing. It
would hardly require all their faculties to send a guy to repair it.
Frustrated, Tristan moved away from the rack and
went deeper into the room. Something’s really, really wrong here.
That was when he passed by the plaque.
He stopped in his tracks. A numbing feeling crept up
from his feet, went up, and settled heavily on his chest. The horror of the possibility
wasn’t sully comprehended by his paralyzed mind.
The plaque was drilled into a metal door to his
right, which led to another room filled with racks of boxes, which were white,
unlike the ones he just perused. The said door was closed, making the words on
the plaque painfully visible to Tristan.
It simply read, Deceased.
Against his will, his legs suddenly came to life and
walked to the direction of the adjoining room.
Could it be?
Before he could lose the sudden surge of courage, he
gripped the steel, bar-like handle and pried it open.
The scene that greeted him was more or less the same
from what he left behind – rows upon rows of white boxes were present still,
but the overhead lights were brighter, and the area was cleaner, more
presentable.
For when the
families come to check the record of the deceased kin.
Tristan’s mind was a total blank as he walked past
the racks. A…B… He realized was haw
breathing heavily, despite the excellent ventilation, when he reached aisle 31.
H.
He braced himself. Surely, he wouldn’t find her
here, would he? She was very much alive. Or was it him who was losing his mind?
Time seemed to stretch forever as he scanned silently
with his eyes. Haben…Haccino…Hade…Hadin…
His heart stopped a minute later.
Hamilton.
Tristan felt sick. He tried to convince himself that
there were many Hamiltons, but he hopelessly failed. Heart pounding, his hand
froze in midair as he hesitated.
That’s not you.
Not you.
His ached even more when he remembered the way she
looked when he left. The way she blushed because of that simple kiss.
With his entire frame shaking, he pulled the box
away from its spot among the rest and looked at the printed tag label.
Hamilton, Reeya,
L.
Secure ward,
7764
Deceased
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