"Some fires burn the soul before they ever touch the skin.
But even in the ashes, she kept healing others—
as if saving lives could silence the screams of her own past."
Scene 1:
The smell of blood and antiseptic clung to the air like an invisible noose—tight, persistent, unforgiving. The overhead lights in the OR were a harsh white, casting long shadows on the tense faces surrounding the operating table. Monitors beeped in erratic symphony, echoing the rhythm of a life hanging by a thread.
Dr. Ruhanika Singhania stood at the head of the table, eyes focused, movements calculated. Her hands—gloved and steady—moved with the precision of someone who had long mastered the choreography of chaos. The clock on the wall ticked past the six-hour mark. Her spine ached. Her temples throbbed. But her gaze didn't waver.
"BP's dropping again," murmured the anesthetist.
She didn't flinch. "Suction. Now."
Her voice was low, clear, steady. Almost soothing. Like a storm was crashing outside, but in here—in this sacred, sterile world—her calm was the only anchor.
The patient—a young boy, no more than ten—had arrived half-torn after a highway collision. Skull fracture. Internal bleeding. Broken ribs. They'd already lost him twice on the table. And each time, she'd pulled him back—dragging his fragile body from the brink like a silent guardian no one prayed to, but everyone needed.
"Clamp that bleeder," she directed, her tone sharper now. "You're too slow. This isn't a textbook."
The junior surgeon faltered, breath shallow, hands trembling. Ruhanika stepped in without a word, stitching the torn artery like a weaver threading hope through flesh.
The boy's heart stuttered again. The ECG traced a deadly slope downward.
"Epinephrine," she said, steel in her voice.
The anesthetist injected it. Monitors screamed. The boy's body convulsed—and then plateaued into an agonizing stillness.
Silence.
Ruhanika's heart didn't stutter, but her mind did. Just for a second. The kind of second where ghosts claw at the back of your skull.
A tiny hand gripping hers.
A sob muffled against her white coat.
"Mumma, will you come for my play today?"
"I'll try, Rahi..."
Her daughter's voice echoed like it came from the other side of a wall too thick to break.
"Charge to 150," she said, already gripping the defibrillator paddles.
"Clear."
The jolt made the boy's chest rise violently, then slump.
Nothing.
"Charge to 200. Again."
"Clear."
One shock. Two. The nurses were holding their breath. The junior surgeon looked seconds from collapse.
"Live, dammit," Ruhanika muttered—not for the patient, but perhaps for herself.
Then—
Beep... beep... beep.
YOU ARE READING
Bound by Ashes
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