When the Savior Became the Monster

The cold corridor lights stretched my shadow out long and thin. This was Ernest Davidson's third time bringing me to this private hospital. Each visit was nearly identical—the scent of disinfectant creeping into my nostrils, stabbing at my temples until they throbbed. The nurse walked over holding the pre-operative consent form, her voice gentle yet formulaic. I took the form, my fingertips icy cold, barely able to hold the pen steady. Ernest Davidson stood beside me, hands shoved in his suit pockets, his expression indifferent. "I'm going to the restroom." He left behind a sentence, then turned and pushed the door open as he exited. The door wasn't shut tight, leaving a narrow gap. At first, I didn't notice, my gaze fixed blankly on the densely packed words on the form. Until his voice drifted through the door panel—each word sharpened with ice. "I'm just after something new," he chuckled lightly, his tone thick with indifference. "Once this is done, I'll confront her." My heart clenched sharply, as if my blood had instantly frozen. The slip in my hand drifted lightly to the floor, making a faint noise. So all that tenderness and companionship had been nothing but lies. To him, I had been nothing more than a plaything to ward off loneliness. When the Nurse came in, she saw me frozen in place, hurried to pick up the slip, and asked me about it. I forced a smile more pitiful than tears, shook my head, and said it was nothing. The surgery was quick, and once the anesthetic took effect, I no longer felt any pain in my body. But the pain in my chest came in waves, each one more fierce than the last. When I woke, I was lying on the hospital ward bed, with Ernest Davidson sitting on the sofa beside me. He didn't look at me; his fingers swiped rapidly across his phone screen, a faint, elusive smile tugging at his lips. Without even thinking, I knew who he was chatting with. Not long after, his phone rang. He stood and walked into the hallway, deliberately lowering his voice, but I still faintly caught the name. Angela Woodward, the nurse in charge of this surgery. It turned out they had been colluding all along. Ernest Davidson returned after hanging up the phone, the smile on his face still lingering. He came to the bedside, reaching out to touch my forehead, his touch awkward and perfunctory. "How are you feeling?" He asked, his tone utterly void of concern. I closed my eyes, unwilling to meet his hypocritical gaze, and whispered that I was fine. He uttered an 'oh' and fell silent, lowering his head to fiddle with his phone again. The hospital ward was hauntingly silent, save for the sound of his fingers tapping on the screen. That crushing loneliness, as if abandoned by the entire world, wrapped around me once more.