It was amusing to see him smile. That brief light moment reminded me of how the sun breaks through brooding clouds. Just when I thought I’ve lifted some of the weight he seemed to be carrying with him, his face darkened once more. Whether it was because of something I did or said, I cannot tell.
He pursed his lips and steeled his expression, and said, “I need to go. Thank you for everything, but I cannot stay long.” Those words brought me down. I felt my face melt to sadness -- and I don’t know why.
That’s how things should be, I said to myself. He does not belong here, and saying goodbye is apparent.
“Eat your breakfast, at least, before you go. You need energy,” I replied nonchalantly, returning all the indifference that should have been there in the first place.
He didn’t say a word, but he set the tray on the side table, then sat on the bed, and without any hesitation, began eating. I turned around towards the door to leave him in peace, until he called back.
“Please stay for a while,” he asked. “I need to ask you a few things.”
There was nothing in his tone -- not a single drop of emotion. It was purely objective, but something was behind it that made me follow his command, and no word best described it than threat.
I dragged the chair from across the room and sat before him. He never looked up. The toast he was chowing down had all of his attention. But even without seeing his eyes, I could tell that the helpless man I operated on yesterday was completely gone. He was a different person now, and he doesn’t seem friendly.
He started with the question, “Where am I?”
I know how serious the question for him was, but I can’t help myself. I just had to say this, and I had to say it without any trace of humor, “You’re in Narnia.”
That got his attention. He looked up at me, brows knitted in a mix of confusion and something that said ‘I think this girl is crazy’. What made me snort out a laugh, however, was when he realized I was fooling around, and how he made an effort to hold his grin back.
He was a man at war with himself, and I can see how much he needed help beyond the medical field. “I know this is none of my business, but why are you so uptight? It’s like you’re not giving yourself a chance to be happy.”
From that funny unclassy expression, his mood switched to guarded sadness. There was no response, but I don’t take silence for an answer, “Well?”
“You already said it. It’s none of your business,” he replied casually.
“Do you know that the leading cause of death for stubborn men like you is stubbornness?” I commented as-a-matter-of-factly. According to my brothers, this was the reason why men don’t like me -- why they don’t even try courting me at all. I’m so blunt and tactless most of the time, it hurts. But I’m not sorry being this way. Some people need it, but they don’t want it because, well, the truth hurts. And for someone whose main priority in life was to address the problems of those in need, I will gladly play the villain as long as it helps.
“Why do you care so much? I am no one to you. I am a stranger. Has your father ever taught you to never talk to one?” he said as he straightened up, food completely forgotten.
“You’re not a stranger to me. You are a patient. And I have this urge to make sure that you are well and fit inside and out when you leave my care.”
My words stunned him. Clearly, he was not expecting that answer, and his reaction hinted of longing but quickly shifted to withdrawal. Even if I don’t completely know him, what he does, and where he’s been, I can’t help but feel empathetic. He was torn in two, and I absolutely know how that feels.
“I really appreciate the thought,” he began, his tone almost pleading, “but you really shouldn’t care. I am a bad man. Aren’t you scared of my tattoos and what they mean?” He raised his arms, and pulled his sleeves back. “Trust me, these aren’t here for the sake of art.”
“Sir, a doctor never discriminates. Just because you have tattoos and I should be scared of them, doesn’t mean I should deny you help and care.” I am not a fool. The world beyond our little farm may be a stranger to me, but that does not mean I don’t know what it instills. I know what those tattoos mean, I just don’t want to make unfair assumptions on this man. Only God has the right to judge.
“Listen, miss, I have done a lot of terrible things in the past, that’s why I don’t wonder when I came so close to dying. And believe me when I tell you, you’re an angel. You are a miracle. And I am thankful for that, but there is no need for you to extend your pity. I have received enough.” His icy blue eyes fixed on me and searched. Though it’s pretty clear that he wants to go, there was something in the way he stares that tells me otherwise.
“Listen, sir, we are human. None of us were born perfect, and that makes us prone to doing bad things, even I am no exemption...”
“You don’t understand it, miss,” he cut me off. He paused for a moment, then he confessed the truth he’s obviously not so proud of, “I kill people for a living.”
That didn’t surprise me at all. Everything about him speaks of it. “And you’re only doing your job,” I answered empathically. “I, on the other hand, am a doctor. But I took more lives than I saved. But I understand how telling myself I am a bad doctor will not help me become a better one. I forgive myself, and then I take the lessons from the past to heart so I don’t repeat them again.” I leaned in closer to him, then said, “You accepted and told me you are a bad man, and that gave me the impression you want to change that fact. And that’s what matters now. Am I right?”
He sighed deeply as he rubbed his temples, then he whispered, “Why aren’t you afraid? Most people would have called the cops by now.” His eyes travelled back to me as he shook his head, then asked, “Hasn’t it occurred to you that I can kill you whenever it pleases me? To make things more convenient for me?”
“And will it please you? Will it make things convenient for you?” I asked hard. No answer. “I am not afraid because I know how imperfect the world is. It’s a place riddled with traps disguised as dreams. Dreams that will lure you in and feed your desires. And one day, you will find yourself drowning and dying in your own happiness, and the things you used to enjoy aren’t fun anymore because all you can feel is confusion and doubt. Everyone of us are victims of these traps, and you are no exemption. You are as much a victim as me, or as the people you’ve killed. You stood by what you believed in at one point and your chosen profession is but a residue of it, but somewhere along the road, you had an epiphany and that tore you in two -- the man you used to be, and the man you’re turning out to be.
“I can call the cops now and have you sent to jail. Will that make the world a better place? Maybe. But will that make you a better man?”
There was silence. He just stared at me like a puzzle. Perhaps he was contemplating the answer to my question. Or maybe he’s already planning how to kill me and my family. But I have faith in this man as I have faith in God. I can see it in his eyes. He will make the right choice.
He snickered, “Do you know that the leading cause of death for stubborn women like you is stubbornness?”
I grinned. It seemed the ice in his frigid world was starting to melt, and that’s good.
“My name is Maria, by the way,” I introduced, as I stretched my hand out.
“Such a sweet name for a fierce lady,” he commented, but took my hand all the same. “Victor.”
V: Victor