Page 46 of Inevitable Endings
The heater clicks on, but it’s not enough to chase away the deep cold that’s settled into my bones. The stillness grows thicker as the night wears on, and the tasks become almost meditative; checking the supplies again, filing paperwork, sanitizing instruments. The kind of routine that becomes second nature in a place like this.
I move from the counter to the gurney, glancing at the man who lies still, his body hidden beneath the sterile white sheets. His shallow breathing is the only sound that breaks the silence. Icheck his vitals again, the beeping of the monitor steady but still too faint in this quiet. For a moment, I let my fingers linger on the edge of the cold metal, grounding myself in the calm.
The lights overhead buzz faintly, casting a harsh, artificial glow over the room. The man on the gurney hasn’t moved in hours. His breathing is steadier now, the rise and fall of his chest no longer a desperate struggle. I should be relieved. His vitals have stabilized, the blood transfusion worked, and for now, his body is holding on.
My eyes drift over the man’s exposed arm, tracing the faint lines of tattoos that snake across his skin.
Each line seems to tell its own story, the designs not entirely sharp but still visible—a mix of symbols and shapes that blend together like memories fading with age. I follow the ink down his forearm, across the wrist, wondering about the significance behind each piece.
Then my eyes catch onto the star above his knee again.
The ink has bled a little over time, the edges of the star almost imperceptible in places. Still, the symbolism is clear.
Ada is now standing near the doorway, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She hasn’t said much more since our conversation, since we first saw the ink on his knee and heard the words spill from his lips like an omen. But she’s been watching him, studying him in that calculating way of hers, as if waiting for a storm to break.
Then, just as I turn to check the monitors again, a sound cuts through the stillness.
A sharp inhale.
My head snaps toward him. His fingers twitch. His body shifts slightly, muscles tensing beneath the thin hospital blanket. And then—his eyes open.
At first, they’re unfocused, pupils blown wide from pain and medication. He blinks slowly, his gaze drifting along the ceilingbefore finally settling on me. His lips part, cracked and dry, but when he speaks, his voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“Winter never buries its own.”
I freeze.
The words slithers through the room like a ghost, wrapping around my throat, squeezing. The weight of it settles in my chest, heavier than it should be, thick with something unspoken. I glance at Ada, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t react, just watches. Waiting.
Because winterdoesbury its own.
The frozen earth swallows the dead. The cold takes what it touches.
Unless—
A violent shudder rips through the man’s body, his fingers twitching, grasping at nothing. His breathing stutters, but his eyes, his eyes remain locked on me, searching, waiting for understanding to settle.
And it does.
The man swallows, his throat bobbing, and then his lips part again, words slipping out in a breath of sound, ragged and broken.
“Hell is empty...”
The air in the room seems to thin.
“Diableis here.’’
And in that instant, everything goes to Hell.
The words sink into me like a blade, slow and deep. They lodge in my ribs, cold and sharp, making it hard to breathe. The clinic around me feels too small, the air too thin. My pulse slams against my skin, and for a second, I swear I can hear it echoing in the silence.
Then, before I can even begin to process it, his breathing stutters.
A sharp, ragged inhale, then a violent shudder rips throughhis body. His fingers twitch. His back arches off the gurney in a brutal, involuntary convulsion.
The monitor spikes, screaming an erratic warning.
Ada moves instantly, shoving past me, her voice breaking through the sudden chaos. “Shit—he’s crashing!”
