Some of it for the better, like my drive to help people. To heal. To become a doctor and fight for my patients—even if their health insurance would deny coverage for life-saving treatment. Even if a money-making algorithm would try to overrule my knowledge as a physician and create a delay in care that would put my patients too far into multi-system organ failure to recover from…
Or maybe I’ve only been changed for the worse.
In my darkest moments, I worry that I may never become a better person than this. I think I might always be bitter, distrustful, and pessimistic. Despite how hard I’ve tried not to dwell on the past, my deepest-held motivations still only seem to stem from my undying need to evolve and grow as a person—and that’s never felt more unreachable than it has been this year.
I’ve become far too accustomed to plastering on a brave face, and now, my careful facade is cracking under the pressure.
‘Fake it until you make it,’ people always say. At this rate, I’ll be doing that until the day I die. I’m starting to think that my only alternative is to let the cracks send me crumbling into a million pieces,far beyond any hope of repair.
Fine. Let it reveal my rotten core. Feed me to the crows.
I don’t care anymore.
I don’t know what ‘making it’ looks like, but I do know it isn’t this. It can’t be. I have to believe it’s something less pathetic than whatever husk of a life I’m existing in now. I have to hope there’s a way I’ll finally hit rock bottom before I make my comeback.
Preferably soon.
With one last deep breath, I straighten my spine and exit my temporary sanctuary. Walking through the hallways at a relaxed pace, I take my time to recollect myself, focusing on my breathing.
The urgent care clinic isn’t my favorite specialty to shadow, so I’m not particularly thrilled at the thought of going back. By the time I’m standing outside the clinic’s waiting room doors, I’m debating going in at all.
Is waiting around for outdated office technologyreallyany better than bedrotting at home? I’m not learning a damn thing here. Maybe Dr. Johnson is working in the ER tonight, or someone else could be convinced?—
“Are you done hiding from me?” A melodic, masculine voice comes from behind me, sounding far too close to be speaking to anyone other than me.
A stone sinks in my stomach with a terrifying sense ofknowing. I have to force myself to turn around, even if it feels like I’m dragging my nails on a chalkboard.
When I see him standing there, right in front of me, my heart clenches in painful confirmation. I freeze, locking up like a deer in headlights.
He stands a few inches taller than me, leaning up against the wall with an expression of idle curiosity. His face—thatface—is chiseled, perfectly shaved, and flawless. Golden blond hair grows from dark roots, neatly kept off his forehead and gathering in curls beneath his ears.
His eyes are the most commanding part of his appearance, though. They’re the brightest shade of amber gold. Like a cat, or a wolf, orsomething somewhere between. Certainly not a natural color for a human. Nobody has eyes that brilliant. Especially under these dull fluorescent lights.
“Do I know you?” My voice comes out shaky, almost afraid.
“You tell me,” he answers in a hum. “You almost seem to recognize me. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it’d certainly make the introductions easier, which would be nice. I’ve already wasted too much time looking for you.”
I only stare back, unable to think clearly. His voice is like honey—sweet enough to eat, and sticky enough to entrap me. Perhaps a bit… British? Definitely not the same booming, thunderous angel-of-God voice that forewarned animal metaphors and gave me painful paper to eat.
Surely there’s some explanation for this.
“You look quite sickly. Still prettier than I expected, though.” He tilts his head to the side, a single curl falling out of place. “Younger, too. I figured you’d at least have a fully developed frontal lobe.”
“Do you… need something… from me?”
“Oh, right. Yes. I need to talk to you. Alone, please.”
Alarms shoot off inside me, sending my nervous system into perilous depths.
I’ve gone down the wrong rabbit hole, thinking this man could be an angel—he’s probably a regular, run-of-the-mill stalker! I could even have seen glimpses of him around before, which would explain why my subconscious dreamed about him. I haven’t heard of predators looking for victims in hospital staff, but it’s plausible. I could see it happening to me, considering my shitty luck lately.
“Sorry, but I’m not interested.” I try to walk away and let him handle his rejection in peace, but he doesn’t leave me alone for a single moment.
“You’re lying,” he calls after me. “I can tell.”
“What the fuck?” I whisper to myself. When I look over my shoulder to address him, my facial expression is equally shocked and appalled. “What the hell is your problem?”
“I can’t tell you that here.” He points to the nearest security camera. “Too many prying eyes. I’d be happy to explain everything if you just come with me?—”
