Beneath The Knife
"Don't stop, don't stop," Ria chanted under her breath as she sprinted across the street. Mrs. Clara's house was only minutes away-if only she could move faster. Her heart drummed a frantic rhythm, and her throat was parched, desperate for water. Yet, she didn't stop. She couldn't-not even if she tried. Her face bore the marks of dried tears, intermingled with the powder her mother had dusted on her cheeks that morning.
Mother!
The word reverberated in her ears, triggering a cascade of fresh tears. At last, the old brown door of Mrs. Clara's house came into view. Summoning a burst of energy, her muscles cried out for rest, and her heart felt like it was on the verge of leaping out of her chest. Ria hammered on the door with all her might. It swung open with a gentle creak, revealing an elderly woman garbed in a white uniform, a nurse's cap sitting atop her head.
The woman's eyes widened in confusion as she gazed upon the weary girl before her, extending her arms to steady the trembling figure. Ria's feet were bare, bloodied from her desperate journey, her face a mosaic of sorrow etched by tears.
For a moment, Mrs. Clara stood frozen, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Then, as Ria's choked gasps filled the silence, instinct took over. The seasoned nurse sprang into action, her years of experience guiding her swift response. She hurried to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water, which she pressed into Ria's hands. Ria downed the water in one large gulp, to the older woman's amazement, and at last, her voice returned. Clutching Mrs. Clara's hand tightly, her eyes filled with a desperate plea.
"My mother, you have to help my mother."
