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“He let you go.” Tristan eyebrows furrow. “Isn’t that what you want?”
No.
“I don’t know what I want,” I say instead, gauging Tristan’s expression. “Please tell me he’s not alone. You care about him, right? You wouldn’t leave him to battle those demons on his own, right?”
Tristan smiles. “He’s an adult. He can take care of himself.”
“Where is he, Tristan?” My voice is brittle, nearing the edge. “Please tell me.”
He shakes his head and releases a long breath. “I can’t do that, but I can assure you that he’s taking a promising path. We discussed his options and I trust what he will do with his life.”
A wave of relief passes through me, but it doesn’t last long. Aaron is still not here. “When is he coming back?”
“I’m not even sure if he will come back.” Tristan leans on his knees. “You’re free, Mae. Make use of it. Don’t waste your youth and potential on someone like Aaron.”
I stop listening to him, pick up my handbag, and leave. Kane drives me back to the front. I ask him for the answers Tristan didn’t provide me but he says nothing, shutting me out completely.
Tears overflow my eyes when I drive back.
Idiots. All of them.
No one understands me. Why can’t anyone see that I’m not really free? My heart, body, and soul don’t belong to me anymore. Aaron took them with him and left me in this vacant body. One that functions out of necessity and the overwhelming need to think about him.
I push the door to my art studio. My gaze flickers between the dozen of paintings I drew after returning. When thinking of Aaron became too much and I couldn’t sleep at night, I came here and poured my feelings to canvas. Sometimes it’s his smile, others it’s the intense look in his eyes, his tattoo, or even the small arch of his eyebrow. It’s always him. Everything I paint revolves around him. I can’t possibly exhibit this even when my professors try to talk me into it. They only saw a sample of undefined features and keep insisting on showing it to the world.
My fingers trace Aaron’s painted strong jawline. I close my eyes. Tears soak my cheeks, and I have no energy to wipe them anymore.
“I miss you, bastard.”
Chapter Thirty
Aaron
Deep breath.
The smell of astringent hand sanitiser calms my nerves.
Another deep breath.
A stronger dose of over-cleaned floor soothes my chest.
I can do this.
A cart with an unconscious patient rolls towards me with the rest of the emergency team. Blood drips from his chest wound. My gaze fixates on the red. My mind goes black. The white hospital walls blur to nothingness. My senses reach the point of shutting down. There’s no bleaching smell anymore. The nurses and the paramedics are talking, but I hear nothing.
Faint digging starts at the back of my head, tame, scarcely recognisable, but if I focus on it, I’ll be dragged back to what I’ve fought so hard to annihilate. I take a deeper breath. Inhale. That’s not blood. That’s a patient. Exhale. You don’t get to kill him, Aaron. Inhale. You’re to act as a responsible resident and apply procedure. Nothing more. Exhale.
With a fresh breath in my lungs, detergent saturates my nostrils. Then comes the squeaking of the metallic cart, the shuffling of running feet, mine with them. The paramedics’ rushed report reaches my ears loud and clear. “Male. Early forties. Trauma to the chest. Sucking wound. First aids were applied. Pulse 80. Lost a lot of blood on site.”
I smile. Yes, I did it. I fought the enchantment of blood.
“Dr Rhodes?” Nurse Brea asks, her steady fingers squeezing the oxygen mask.
“Operation room three!” I shout. “Keep pumping the oxygen.”
The surgery goes well. I do well. I had to fight the compulsion to squeeze his heart out instead of reviving it only once. A considerable improvement compared to the times I fought the urge a hundred times during a surgery. I’m getting better. I no longer give in to the voices. Although I still hear them now and then, they’re distant, almost inaudible.
I remove the gloves and wash my hands. The image that greets me in the mirror is... me. Is this really me? Do I want to be a trauma surgeon? Probably yes. It’s definitely better than sitting in the office all day, taking care of business I don’t give a damn about. The excitement of the emergency room is much better. But I’m not doing this for people. It’s only myself that I’m concerned about. I refuse to let a trace of a voice dictate my life. I refuse to be repulsive, impulsive, and mindless. More than anything, I needed to regain the control I barely owned. To do that, the voices and the blood lust had to go. That’s why I picked up my residency where I left it off. Trauma cases are the only way I’ve found around my blood lust. The best solution to fight off blood is to exi
