Page 4 of Doctor Bossy

Although, to be fair, it wasn’t like I had been doing much at the time.

I had already finished reviewing most of the lab reports for the night, outlining everything my lab analysts and techs had been working on for the past few weeks. It had been a busy week of working for nearly fifteen hours every single day, trying to ensure the drug formula was perfect before we moved on to human trials. Animal testing had been largely successful with a few minor side effects so far, and the only drawback to the formula was that it was fairly time-consuming and expensive to produce. Still, to date, it was the most promising treatment that we had for the rare brain cancer known as Terk’s Glioblastoma.

We were so close to a breakthrough that I could almost taste it.

Yet, there was nothing like happiness to be had this night.

Then again, I couldn’t remember being happy for a long time.

There was a vague sense of satisfaction that Terradol, the drug I’d spent years perfecting, was nearly ready for market. It was a drug that had the potential to save so many lives, and I planned to patent and sell it at a loss so everyone would have access to it. I had already made millions in my lifetime, and I didn’t need anymore, especially if it came as a result of dying patients. I had the power to make a difference in so many lives, so I should have been happy.

But instead, the restlessness inside me did not dissipate no matter how much I threw myself into my work or how many damn patents I had.

Because at the end of the day, it didn’t matter.

I hadn’t been able to save the one person who mattered the most to me.

My wife. Heather.

Terradol would have been a miracle cure for her. But it came about twelve years too late.

I stared at her picture on my work desk as I took a sip of my scotch, letting the familiar depression overwhelm me. I welcomed it—at least it was better than the apathy I started to feel whenever I remembered the past. That terrified me because forgetting the pain of losing her meant I also forgot what she meant to me.

Heather was more than just my wife. She was my first everything—my first kiss, first love. She was my world, and she was taken from me prematurely.

And I couldn’t forget about her. She meant everything to me, and she always would.

“Together, forever,” I vowed to her picture. I would spend the rest of my life with her in spirit, even if I couldn’t be with her physically.

I could have saved her.The thought would probably haunt me for the rest of my life. If I had found her disease sooner, if I had started the research sooner, if, if, if…

It was ironic that, as an oncologist, I hadn’t noted any of the early symptoms of Heather’s cancer. It had been a rare sort, with a sudden onset. But still. If I was as much of a genius as the damn journals said I was, I should have done something earlier.

And she would still be alive.

It was while I was stuck in my melancholic musings that I heard the banging at the gate.

I paused before going to check at the window.

I lived in a solitary mansion just off the side of I-95, and I didn’t usually get many visitors. There was a time when I had friends, a time when my wife and I hosted Sunday BBQs and dinners and were known for having some of the best soirées in town.

But that part of me had died with her. And it would likely remain dead until my physical body joined her.

Some days, I wished that would come sooner than later.

The banging came again, even louder, when I opened the windows. I thought I heard a female voice, but I couldn’t clearly make out the outline in the dark. The woman appeared to be screaming like a banshee as she banged on the gates, although her figure remained obscured by the tall gates of the manor.

I immediately pressed the intercom on my desk, paging down to my butler.

“Arnold.”

“Yes, sir?” he responded, ever quick and ready to serve.

“Who is the crazy woman attempting to tear the gate down?”

“I think it’s Becca, sir.”

“Becca?” The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t quite place it.