The words hung in the air, like the aftermath of a storm. The weight of the moment pressed down on me, but as I heard Handas' reluctant agreement, a quiet sigh of relief escaped my lips. I had not expected him to side with me, but there it was—a fleeting sense of validation.
Handas scanned the room, his sharp, calculating eyes flicking over the others with a sense of quiet command. Without another word, he reached for the cold metal door handle. "Alright, let's go," he muttered, his voice steady but with the unmistakable air of finality.
The rest of the group shuffled out of the hospital room, their footsteps muted against the polished white floors. But I stayed where I was, rooted in place, unable to leave just yet. Handas noticed my hesitation and turned back, his brow furrowing in annoyance.
"You coming?" His voice was tinged with impatience, the usual hardness evident beneath his words.
I motioned weakly to Fiona's crumpled form on the floor. Her face was pale, eyes barely open, blood oozing from multiple wounds that stained the floor in grotesque pools of red.
"I'll catch up with you," I said, my voice tight. "I need to make sure she survives."
Handas' lips curled into a deprecating sneer, his irritation clear. "Whatever," he muttered under his breath, the words laced with resignation. He turned on his heel, the sound of his boots fading as he walked away, the others following closely behind.
The room seemed to grow colder in their absence. The antiseptic air felt thick around me, cloying, as if the sterile atmosphere of the hospital was suffocating any remaining hope I had. Alone with Fiona, I stared at her still, broken body, the weight of the decision ahead of me pressing down on my chest.
I couldn't afford to waste time. Not now.
With an awkward grunt, I bent down and tried to lift Fiona into my arms. Her body was lifeless, limp against me, and I struggled to find balance. My knees buckled under her weight, but I gritted my teeth and pushed through. Slowly, unsteadily, I staggered to my feet, the blood from her wounds soaking through my own clothes. Every step felt like an eternity—pain shot up from my legs with each movement, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't let her die.
I leaned against the hospital walls, my back aching, my legs burning from the unnatural strain, but I pressed forward. I shoved Fiona up against the walls for support, taking another agonizing step. The movement was awkward, and the sight of the two of us—the living and the dying—was a grotesque tableau.
The hospital staff, upon seeing me stumble down the hall with Fiona in my arms, froze in terror. Their eyes widened in horror at the bloodied mess I carried, their faces draining of colour. Some recoiled, stepping back as if I were a monster, their instincts screaming for flight.
But I wouldn't let them run. Not now.
"Wait!" My voice rang out, raw and desperate. "I mean you no harm. I only need help. Please, she's dying!"
Some of the staff hesitated, their feet frozen in place as they exchanged nervous glances. A few of them turned and started to flee, but a handful remained, drawn to the plea in my voice. One nurse, a woman with short brown hair and wide, fearful eyes, stepped forward, her hands trembling but determined.
"You're not going to hurt us, are you?" Her voice wavered, unsure.
I shook my head rapidly, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "No! I just need help! She's dying. Please."
After what felt like an eternity, the nurse nodded, her face set with a blend of fear and resolve. "Alright," she said, motioning for me to follow. "Come with me. We'll get her the help she needs."
The journey to the operating room felt endless. The corridors seemed to stretch before me, a maze of cold, white walls that only heightened my sense of isolation. The clatter of my footsteps echoed in the silence, the distant hum of hospital machinery a stark reminder of the life-and-death stakes of the situation.
We finally arrived at an operating room—its walls gleaming white, its sterile brightness blinding. The sharp scent of disinfectant stung my nose, and the harsh fluorescent lights above cast a sterile, unforgiving glow on everything they touched. I could almost feel the cold of the room seeping into my skin as I gently lowered Fiona onto the operating table, my hands shaking with the strain of what I had just done.
I stepped back, my heart hammering, giving the medical staff the space they needed. The door slid shut behind me with a soft click, leaving me alone in the sterile waiting room.
I sank into one of the hard, uncomfortable chairs, my body rigid with tension. The minutes dragged on, stretching into what felt like hours. My hands were slick with sweat, my stomach a gnawing pit of anxiety. I couldn't stop thinking, What if she dies? What if it's too late? The thought was like a cold vice tightening around my chest.
I tried to focus on something else, anything else. I thought about the guard. The one who had died. There was a strange sort of clarity to his death—a kind of bittersweet nobility. He had made a choice to protect people, even if it had cost him his life. And yet, as tragic as his death was, it had allowed Fiona's survival—though at what cost?
But the weight of it all felt unbearable. The violence. The deaths. It all blurred together, a tangled mess of conflicting emotions that left me unable to find a solid ground beneath my feet.
Finally, the door opened again. The doctor emerged, his face unreadable. My heart skipped a beat as he approached. His eyes locked onto mine, and he spoke the words I had been dreading.
"She will live," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
A wave of relief crashed over me, so powerful that my legs nearly gave out beneath me. I wiped the sweat from my brow, unable to keep my hands from trembling.
The doctor's expression shifted. He sat down next to me, his posture rigid, and for the first time, I noticed the subtle tension in his features—like a man burdened by something unspeakable.
"What happened to her?" he asked, his voice low but sharp with concern. "What led to her being in that state?"
I felt my stomach tighten. The question echoed in my mind like an accusing finger. I couldn't answer. I didn't have the words. How could I explain Handas' actions? How could I justify what had happened? The violence, the cruelty—it all blurred together into a messy web of motives and consequences that I wasn't sure I could untangle.
I turned away from the doctor's intense gaze, my voice almost a whisper. "Why do you help slave traders?"
The question seemed to catch him off guard. He exhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead as if trying to gather his thoughts. His voice, when it came, was tinged with a quiet, almost resigned bitterness.
"People see slave traders as monsters. And in many ways, they are," he began slowly. "But it's not that simple. Birth rates are rising, and parents are encouraged to have more children because of the financial incentives. They survive through that system, however twisted it may be."
I stared at him, disbelief written across my face. "But… you're a doctor! Don't you care about your patients? Don't you want to heal them, not contribute to their suffering?"
The doctor looked away, his expression softening with the weight of his words. "I don't condone what they do. It's barbaric. But the reality is... it works. In a strange way, it's better than the alternative."
I stood up, pacing restlessly. My chest felt tight, my anger rising. "How can you say that? It's not living! It's slavery!"
The doctor's eyes met mine again, and there was something almost sad in his gaze. "Their lives aren't like ours. These children—they never know what it's like to be free. But in their world, they are content. They serve their masters, and in return, they are fed, they are sheltered. They're not burdened by the expectations we carry. You and I, we live with dreams, with hopes, with regrets. They don't have that. They serve, and that's all they know. Our suffering and their suffering are both relative."
I clenched my fists, my knuckles turning white. "That's no life," I spat.
The doctor let out a quiet sigh, his shoulders slumping. "Maybe not by your standards. But in their eyes, it's the only life they've ever known. They don't know what they're missing."
I shook my head, unable to wrap my mind around his twisted logic. "Then why shouldn't we rescue them? Why let them suffer like this?"
The doctor shook his head slowly. "If we intervene, if we save them, it disrupts everything. Birth rates would plummet, and the system would collapse. Even as slaves, they contribute to society. Their labour is... part of the greater whole. It is better to live terribly than to not live at all."
I let my clenched hands fall to my sides, the weight of the conversation crushing me. "I still think it's wrong."
The doctor's eyes softened, and he offered a tired smile, but there was no warmth in it. "You're entitled to your beliefs."
Without another word, I turned and walked out of the hospital. The doors closed behind me with a soft click.