Page 23 of The Ripper

Maybe that was why I always chose the wrong men.

Maybe I was looking for the same thrill his presence had given me that day, and so I went out with men who reminded me of him in some way. Whether it was their hair, the color of their eyes, their height, or the abundance of tattoos, I had to try. I had to see if they could measure up to the stranger I met on an airplane three years ago, or at least if they would make an impact strong enough as the Grim Reaper did with a clumsy dance and a few words.

I brought my hands together and stared at the tattoos on my wrists, sighing, then poured myself a cup of coffee, added sweetener and cream, and went back to my bedroom, yawning.

After throwing the towel on the bed, I put on a pair of white cotton panties and a long white silk robe, tying it in a loose knot around my waist.

I didn’t like to wear anything at home. Most of the time, I only wore underwear in the house and only put something on when I went out on the balcony.

There was something liberating about being naked, or maybe I just liked the feeling that someone was watching me, and I wanted them to like what they saw.

My eyes fell on the half-full pack of cigarettes lying next to my gold cross necklace on the bedside table, and I sighed. I’d never smoked until six days ago, except for weed. I needed weed on desperate occasions. I’d also never taken off the necklace until last night, when one of my patients died.

Alana was a twelve-year-old child with severe cardiomyopathy.

We all knew she wouldn’t make it without a transplant, but we’d held onto hope until the last moment that we would get a heart, because she was a ray of hope, smiling through the agony her body was chained to until the last second, telling her mother that she would always watch over her and asking her not to cry. If anyone deserved to live in the rancid world, it was her.

What she didn’t deserve, though, were the cards life had dealt her.

Alana deserved to go to the movies with her friends, sneak out the window to meet her boyfriend, go to prom, graduate, and live a full and happy life. Everything that happened to her was so fucking unfair, and I refused to believe in a God who allowed children to die, especially under such harsh and painful conditions.

Until six days ago, I didn’t swear either.

But then Alana died, and that part of me I’d suppressed for nine years resurfaced. The ugly part, the desperate part, the aggressive part. Over the years, I learned to keep it in check, but last night… Last night she clawed at me so badly it hurt, and for a brief moment, when I confronted Justin, I allowed her to win.

I picked up the necklace, feeling the sting in my eyes as I opened the drawer and threw it inside. I didn’t want to see it for a while.

*

“Do you believe in God, Dr. Santino?” Alana’s mother asked me when she saw me clutching my necklace.

“I do, Mrs. Jenkins,” I replied, and she nodded, holding a wooden cross to her chest.

“Me too,” she tried to smile as we watched Alana sleep. “She used to go to church with me every Sunday while the other kids went to the playground,” she sniffled, wiping her tears, but they were quickly replaced. “But she never got to go with them. She never got to be a normal child.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat as I tried not to look directly at her at that moment, but when I turned to tell her that I prayed God would give her daughter back to her soon, Alana crashed.

Everything was a blur after that.

Cardiac arrest. No pulse. People running. No pulse. Alana’s mother fell to her knees on the threshold. No pulse. Crash cart. No fucking pulse. Push epi. Charge. Clear. No pulse.

Twenty minutes of resuscitating later, still no pulse.

“I’m calling it,” I said in a brittle voice, my heart in pieces as everyone stopped and stepped back. “Time of death, 10:52PM.”

I sighed and looked at Alana’s mother without wanting to, watching as she crawled to the bed, sobbing, and hugging her child’s body to her own.

I didn’t know what I could say to her.

That I was sorry?

That we did everything we could?

What the fuck could I say to comfort the single mother who had done everything for her daughter and whose efforts were still not enough?

So, I did what any doctor would do in my situation, I tried to give her the space she needed to say goodbye.

“Dr. Santino,” she whispered through her cries as I reached the door.

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