NICK
At 8:00 AM, I stepped into the OR.
This was the only place where the world stopped screaming. It's sterile. Controlled. Quiet. The blue drapes and the bright lights create a sanctuary where the headlines don't matter.
Here, I could finally breathe, almost. The only thing that matters is the anatomy in front of me. The work.
During surgery, I was always focused. Actually focused. My hands were steady, my mind finally quiet. That was the only time I felt almost normal, tucked away from the expectations of my parents and the resentment for my brother.
The procedure was routine, a complex reconstruction that I could do in my sleep.
I'm good at this. Not because I love the "art of healing," but because I have to be. In my family, failure isn't an option. Mediocrity is a sin.
As I sutured the fascia, a thought came to me, unbidden and sharp.
