(Gore, trauma warning)
Ugh, starting a new chapter in life often hinders you from finishing the chapter you have going on! this is a sneak peek at the part I'm working on, if you like it, add it to your library, share it with your friends, or even better, do both!
-----------------------------------------------------
The scalpel slipped from me, Trish's trembling fingers, clattering against the blood-soaked floor. No, not Tristan—Dr. Marcus Fisher. Yes. Marcus. He was the one standing here, his hands covered in blood, the boy's body lying motionless on the table in front of him. But… was that right?
My vision blurred as I stared down at the lifeless child, panic rising like bile in his throat. I couldn't remember the boy's name. I couldn't even remember how he'd gotten here—had I been in surgery all day? Or had it been days? Weeks? My body ached like it had been carved out from the inside, hollow, worn down by hours of work. Or was it something else?
A muffled explosion rattled the walls of the tent, sending dust cascading from the ceiling, but Marcus barely flinched. My heartbeat quickened, pounding in his ears. I could feel it—this wasn't my life. But every time the thought surfaced, it was drowned out by the relentless rhythm of the war zone, the screams, the bombs. It all felt so real.
"Clamp! I need—" My voice faltered as he looked around. The nurses… where were they? Where was anyone?
There was no one. Just silence. Just the echo of my words, swallowed by the heavy, oppressive air. The boy's body, still warm beneath his hands, was dead. And Marcus—no, Tristan—was alone. Again.
I stumbled back from the table, wiping my bloodstained hands on the front of his scrubs, but the blood wouldn't come off. My fingers shook, red smearing across his skin, so much blood. My breath hitched, the weight of the situation pressing down on my chest like a vice, squeezing the air from his lungs. Who was he?
A voice echoed in his mind—"You failed him." No, no, I hadn't failed. I'd tried everything. But the boy had lost too much blood. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't.
I wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing more blood. He couldn't get clean.
You deserve this, the voice whispered, dark and familiar. You deserve to be here. To feel this pain. Look at what you've done.
I tried to shake my head, tried to clear his thoughts, but the fog was too thick, too suffocating. Why couldn't I think straight? The names, the faces, the surgeries—it all blurred together in a haze of guilt and exhaustion.
But somewhere in the distance, like a faint melody, I heard another voice. A voice he knew. Kiara? "Trish!" She was calling out to me, her voice fragile and soft, but there. Hold on to her. Remember her.
Remember.
"I… I can fix this," I muttered, but the words felt wrong, disconnected. Who was I trying to convince? The boy was gone. The boy was never here.
This isn't real. My heart lurched in his chest. I wasn't supposed to be here—I was looking for something. Someone. Avery. She needed him. But where was she?
For a fleeting second, I could see her—a memory, a glimmer of hope. She was smiling, laughing like she used to before everything went dark. But as quickly as the image came, it vanished, swallowed by the chaos of the war-torn tent. The boy's blood. The stench of death. The weight of failure crashed down on me.
I reached out, grasping at the air like he could pull the memory back, but it slipped through my fingers. The house didn't want him to remember. It wanted me to stay here, lost, drowning in the blood of the dead. It wanted me to give up.
Another blast rocked the ground, and Marcus—Tristan—collapsed to his knees, my hands trembling, my vision swimming. Where was the door? How do I get out?
I looked up, desperate, my breath coming in short gasps. There had to be a way out. There always is. But the tent stretched on forever, walls merging into darkness, the outside world just a distant echo. I couldn't remember the last time he'd seen sunlight.
"Please… let me out," I whispered, though he wasn't sure who he was begging. His hands clutched at my scalp, trying to squeeze out the thoughts—the pain, the guilt, the confusion—but it was useless. It was all useless.
"You can't escape this," the voice said, louder now. Cruel. "You'll never find the door, Tristan. You'll never leave. Not until you give me what I want."
My heart hammered in his chest, fear clawing at my insides. What did it want? My soul? My hope? My spirit was already breaking, piece by piece. But I couldn't let go—not yet. Not until I found her.
"Just… show me the door," I begged again, my voice cracking. But there was no door.
There was never a door.
I wasn't meant to leave.