The Surgeon’s Scars: Running From My Past

The Uber was five minutes away. Adria stood by the valet stand, shivering, but then a wave of nausea rolled over her so powerfully she doubled over. The soup. The stress. The look in Damon's eyes.

She turned and ran back into the hotel lobby, ignoring the startled look of the doorman. She sprinted toward the restrooms down the east corridor.

She didn't make it to the door. The sound of heavy footsteps and a familiar, booming voice made her freeze.

She ducked into a small alcove that housed a vending machine, pressing her back against the cold wall. Her heart was thudding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

It was Damon. He was pacing in the corridor, his back to her. He was on the phone again.

"Campbell! I told you a thousand times!" He shouted, his voice echoing off the marble floors. He sounded frantic. Angry.

Adria clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Stay right where you are," Damon barked. "I already called the hospital. They're ready for you."

Hospital? Adria's mind raced. Was Campbell sick? Was she pregnant? The thought made her knees buckle.

Damon ran a hand through his hair, his posture slumping. His voice dropped, losing the anger, replaced by a tone Adria remembered from late nights in their apartment. A tone of care.

"I'm coming over now," he said. "Don't be afraid."

Don't be afraid.

The words shattered Adria.

She slid down the wall, her legs giving out. He was yelling because he was worried. He was rushing to her side. He was comforting her.

He loves her. The realization was a final, crushing weight. All the hostility at dinner, the cold stares-it was just frustration. At the end of the day, Campbell was the one he ran to. Campbell was the one he told not to be afraid.

Damon hung up the phone. He kicked the wall, a violent thud that made Adria jump, then turned and strode away toward the exit, his footsteps fading.

Adria waited until silence returned before she dragged herself up. She stumbled into the restroom and locked herself in the handicap stall.

She dropped to her knees in front of the toilet and dry heaved. Nothing came up but acid and bile. Her body was rejecting the emotional trauma, trying to purge a pain that was embedded in her soul.

Her vision began to tunnel. Black spots danced at the edges of her sight. Her hands went numb, the tingling spreading up her arms. A panic attack. A bad one.

She fumbled with her clutch, her fingers clumsy and stiff. She poured three pills into her palm-Xanax. She swallowed them dry, the bitter chalky taste sticking to her tongue.

She curled into a ball on the cold tile floor, hugging her knees. The smell of industrial cleaner filled her nose, reminding her of the hospital room in Boston. Alone. Bleeding. Dying.

"Why didn't you want me?" The child's voice whispered again.

"I did," she sobbed silently, rocking back and forth. "I wanted you so much."

She stayed there for twenty minutes until the drugs began to chemically force her heart rate down. The numbness retreated, replaced by a hollow, cold void. This was the armor. A chemical blanket that smothered the fear, but also the joy, leaving only a vast, empty calm. It was in this state that she could function. It was in this state that Dr. Barr could take over from the shattered woman on the floor.

She stood up. She walked to the sink. The woman in the mirror looked like a corpse. Pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, lips bitten raw.

She turned on the cold water and splashed her face. She took out her lipstick and applied it like war paint. She dusted powder over the tear tracks.

When she looked in the mirror again, Dr. Adria Barr stared back. Cold. Detached. Unbreakable.

Her phone buzzed. Adonis. Car is here.

Coming.

She walked out of the hotel, her head held high. She got into the car and didn't look back.

As her car pulled away, a red Ferrari roared out of the parking lot, tires screeching, heading in the opposite direction. Toward the city. Toward Campbell.

Adria closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.