Page 24 of The Ripper

“Yes?” I replied with a voice as pained as hers, half turning my head towards the bed.

“God doesn’t exist,” she said as she dropped the wooden cross that she had been clutching with so much faith to the floor.

My tears fell in sync with the cross.

*

With wet eyes, the pack of cigarettes and phone in one hand and the cup of coffee in the other, I stepped out onto the balcony.

My sobs blended with the sounds of the sirens sounding in the distance, and I breathed in the early morning air as I sat down on the bench.

I lit a cigarette and wondered what else I could have done to save her.

Had I not done enough research? Should I have insisted more with the NHS for her?

Guilt.

So much guilt kept twisting my heart inside my chest.

As I sipped my coffee and smoked, silent tears streaming down my face, I watched the world moving on around me, uncaring, unaffected by the loss. I noticed the lights in the surrounding buildings turning on one by one as a new day broke. I saw the first runner, the first person walking their dog, the first car leaving the parking lot, and I thought of the many firsts Alana never got to experience and never will.

And I cried.

I cried for myself.

I cried because I couldn’t do more.

I cried for technological progress and its inability to help the sick. I cried for the broken, corrupt system. I cried for the loss of faith, for every child who had ever suffered, for every patient I’d lost in my three years as a doctor, and for the ones I would lose going forward.

I cried for the single mom who would never be able to hug her child again.

I cried ugly tears, fucking hell, for everything.

On my third cigarette, my phone lit up with a text, and initially ignored it, thinking it couldn’t be anything other than some sales agent at such an early hour, but then it buzzed again.

Blowing smoke into the air, I took it from the small coffee table and unlocked it, then read over the two texts.

Unknown number:

Whatever happened, I’m sure you did

everything you could.

Unknown number:

I wish I could take the pain you feel upon me.

Me:

Who is this?

Unknown number:

A friend.

Me:

Care to be

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