The Mechanics of Us

Chapter 5

I left the hospital two weeks later with a jagged scar running from my left temple to midway behind my head and stitches that still poked out slightly above the raw wound. I was given an address, a notebook with a stack of addressed envelopes, and money. I was given strict instructions not to exist, to be a hermit, not to tell a soul where I have gone. I went from gaining attention from those of great importance to not being recognized on the streets. I wondered to myself if this is what happened to the other surgeons. If they too were told to be quiet and do not exist in a world where all that mattered was to be known.

The address the agency had given me was to my new apartment that was about thirty minutes south of the hospital. The location was oddly in a bustling city, surrounded by other small apartment complexes with street lamps spread out across the sides of the road. There were quaint rustic shops scattered about with hoards of people rushing in and out.

Now, as I stand with a satchel slung around my shoulder, my jacket zipped up to my chin, and feet turned inward, I come to the realization I am now just like everyone else. I am nothing but a person awkwardly positioned in front of a weathered brick apartment complex with only a damp wooden box filled with the few items I was allowed to keep at my side and the clothes on my back. After a few more seconds of standing still in front of the glass doors, I muster up the courage to finally walk inside. I take in the lobby areas first, an electric fireplace off to my left, a couch stationed across from it, a desk for check in to my right, and a wall with closed compartments for mail straight in front of me. I take a few gracious steps forward and spot the splintered and partially carpeted staircase, which leads up to the other floors of the building. I trudge up the stairs, the wooden beams giving way under my weight and releasing a long groan every time I shift my body.

My apartment is on the third floor, and as I ascend the stairs, the loud moans of the old boards increase in volume until that is all that can be heard. I drop the cumbersome wooden box in front of my assigned apartment room, and a loud boom echoed in the vacant hallways. I rummage into my pockets and try to find my ring of keys the people gave me, and eventually, I feel the sharp metal grooves of a key. I slide the key into the metal socket, jiggle it a bit, and press my shoulder against the dense door. Eventually, the door gives, and I stumble inside. The apartment room itself is average, and precisely what I was expecting. It is just a simple studio apartment, no formal bedroom, only one full bathroom, a walk-in closet, and a kitchen area. The walls were a dull grey, and there is a bed in the corner near a body length window with a small black nightstand adjacent to it. It smells musty and damp with a lingering scent of burnt food. There is little to it, but it is something, and I am thankful I am not entirely homeless. It only takes me a few minutes to unpack all of my items since there wasn't much to unpack. All there are are my personal items I was allowed to keep which included a single photo of my family, an anatomy book, and my old stethoscope from the hospital I worked at. I place the book on the nightstand and prop the stethoscope on top of it. As I search the apartment for a place to put my picture of my family, I can't help but take a moment to let myself think back to my youth.

It's dangerous to live in such nostalgia as it distracts from the present and clouds your perception of the future, but I can't help but think about that day when the picture was taken. In all honesty, I don't have any vivid memories of this particular day, but my senses remember more than my mind.

I close my eyes and let myself relive the day. My mind floods with physical memories, memories that my consciousness may not be able to grasp, but my body can. I can still feel the intense embrace of the sun's rays wrap around me, which were then followed by the sounds of crashing waves. There is distant laughter, a seagull's screech, the faint aroma of sunscreen mixed with salt.

Suddenly, something tickles down the side of my cheek; I place a gentle hand on the side of my face, which quickly becomes damp with warm beads of water. I am crying. I haven't cried in over ten years, and I cried because I broke my arm. Memories never triggered such an emotional response before as I always had this notion that the past can not be changed nor relived, it is better to let it go than to dwell on what was and will never be. I am unsure what to think now, and I find myself standing still with my hand pressing against my cheek and tears collecting at the corner of my eyes.

A rapping at the door catches me off guard, and I flinch from the unexpected disruption. I wasn't expecting anyone for obvious reasons, and I find myself slightly frazzled at the moment. I frantically take the sleeves of my shirt and use the cuffs to wipe any stray tears away from my eyes. The rapping continues, "One second!" I exclaim and race to the door to peer through the peephole. I feel my heart sink at the sight of who stood on the other side of the door. To my surprise, it was the mother of the child who I saved only a few weeks ago.