Stitched To The Devil

Raynelle

The television hummed in the distance, its soft static filled the room.

“As of today, three people have been found dead down Brooklyn street. All male,”

I raised my head, staring at the news reporter with new-found interest,

“There was a striking occurrence in each of the three victims; all were severely mutilated.”

I gagged as I placed the steaming cup of coffee on the desk, my full attention was on the grainy footage playing on the screen.

Three men laid on the hard concrete that was dyed red with blood. Their eye socket was empty, missing its orifices.

I placed my palm over my mouth, stifling the urge to vomit, years of working as a resident, yet sights like this made me question why I chose this profession in the first place.

“Seems like we have another psycho on the loose.” My colleague, Lamine, drew a sip from my coffee, smacking his lips together. “I bet my two testes that it's the mafia.”

I scoffed, snatching my coffee back. “The whole deal about being a secret organization is that they're meant to be covert,” I raised my hand, gesturing at the screen, “This is way too ostentatious.”

He shrugged, “Then it's probably another deranged psychopath on the loose.”

The pager beeped. Code Red- GSW-ER

I gulped as I stared at the pager, a gunshot wound, just after another serial murder that was happening all too often.

I shook my head, refusing to let Lamine's words get to me. It's just another patient you have to help.

“You can do this, Raynelle,” I whispered to myself, clenching my fists in my pockets,

“Raynelle!” Dr. Mendelez called out to me, from a distance. I broke into a run, making a beeline for the ER.

I burst through the doors, gasping for breath. A man, no older than thirty, laid on the bed, his face was pale, ghostly pale as his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

Nurses paced around the room dealing with the swarm of patients.

Dr. Mendelez, the attending surgeon for the night, gave a quick, clipped report of the patient’s current condition.

“A gunshot wound to the abdomen, the patient was conscious when he was wheeled in.” He paused, staring at me with urgency, “Now he's slipping.”

That unyielding stare, I've worked with him long enough to know what he meant. While he was there, I would be the one performing the surgery.

“A perforating gunshot wound,” I replied sharply, an eerie calm washed over me. “Prepare the patient for Laparotomy.” I ordered.

Mr. Mendelez nodded, his hand reaching out to pat my shoulders, “Are you sure you can handle it?”

I nodded briskly, a small smile lighting up my face, “I have the best attending surgeon by my side.”

My fingers quivered as I stood in front of the unconscious patient.

“Suctio-”

"Here's the suction." A nurse placed it into my palm before I'd finished speaking.

Blood flooded the cavity, thick and impossibly bright beneath the operating lights.

"I can't see the artery."

"Retract harder," Dr. Mendelez ordered, his burning gaze never leaving me.

“Calm down, you'll do alright.” A nearby nurse reassured me.

I nodded, taking a deep breath. It's all going to be okay.

†

I stumbled into the bathroom, ignoring the yells behind me.

The room spun underneath my feet and I grabbed the bathroom sink to stabilize myself, leaving bloody handprints on the pristine ceramic.

Not my blood. His.

It happened so fast— the surgery, my first incision, everything was going well.

The anesthetists, younger residents and, of course, Dr. Mendelez stood beside me, watching my every move.

It wasn't my first surgery, but this one was different.

His face was pallid like he was already knocking at death's door.

The heart monitor beeped faintly, before spiraling into a series of high-frequency beeps that made goose flesh rise steadily on my skin.

My body shook as I rinsed my fingers, watching as the crimson became pale pink.

Dark emerald orbs stared at me mockingly through the mirror,

‘Murderer,’ It whispered, echoing loudly in the silence, ‘You’re a murderer, always will be.’

I sunk to the floor, staring at the trails of blood left behind by my surgical gloves.

“Why,” My fingers grasped the strands of my hair, “Why did it all go fucking wrong!”

I tugged. Hard.

'You think this is painful?' The voice mocked, 'Imagine what he must've gone through. This is nothing.'

The bullet tore through his hepatic artery and all I could see was blood, gushing out in waves.

I could've stopped it, I could've saved him.

But my fingers shook, his vitals dropped, his blood pressure tanked.

“He's going into hypovolemic shock.” Was the last thing I heard as Dr. Mendelez pushed me aside.

The heart monitor flat-lined.

I took my first wobbly steps out of the bathroom after cleaning the blood stains off the tiles.

My head was downcast, avoiding every glance that zeroed in on me.

Dr. Mendelez propped himself against the wall, folder in hand, as he scanned through its content.

His spatial awareness kicked in, and his eyes met mine, concern swimming in his dark orbs.

“We can't save them all,” he said, patting my shoulders reassuringly.

I bit back the snarky reply that lined my tongue, nodding absently as he spoke.

'We could've saved this one.'

“- Go home, take a break and hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.”

I opened my mouth to refuse, but he shot me a stern glare. It wasn't a request, it was an order.

The engine of my old Volkswagen sputtered to life. I stared at the fuel gauge. It had enough juice to commute from home for the next couple of days.

At this point, my apartment was a hellish paradise. Rent was due, and my greasy landlord constantly breathed down my neck.

The light shone green, and I took a turn down the street, consciously avoiding the streets downtown to take a lesser known shortcut.

My dead body on the news was definitely not on the bucket list for the new year.

The car stereo hummed to life, a 90s beat played in the background, an old-time classic. I jammed the buttons, trying to turn it off.

It was one of my favorites, but now was definitely not the time.

My attention was on the stereo, so I didn't notice it on time: the hooded figure that limped across the street.

When I did, it was too late.