A Knife on His Lap|| Bodyguard AU

White Halls

~Nariya Patel~

My steps grow shallow, influenced by the unsettling atmosphere of these halls that gradually encroach upon me. I find myself repeating a mantra in my head, urging, "Keep it together, Nari," as a self-directed scolding. Today marks the long-awaited moment when I will finally be liberated from the oppressive cast encasing my leg, a hindrance to my daily life for the past few weeks. Gratitude overwhelms me at the prospect of its removal.

In contrast to the previous occasion when the cast on my hand was removed, Dr. Jeon had personally visited our home for the procedure. However, this time around, I received word that she is engrossed in a case in another state. Consequently, we are compelled to make our way to the local hospital for the same purpose.

I dig my nails into the insides of my palms, moving with nimble steps down the white halls that seem to close in on me. The walls press in, and the acrid stench of cleaner burns the back of my throat. Indomitable faces of death swirl before my eyes, and a nightmarish memory flashes as I glance into no particular corner—a curled-up girl in the dead of night, her sobs blending with the sorrowful howls of distant dogs. The parent, her pillar of support and only hope, vanished in an instant that fateful night.

Many days prior, it was the same girl who walked these white halls, a forced smile on her face and an artificial glimmer of hope in her heart.

She curled her head between her legs, sobs echoing through the empty halls as she pleaded desperately, addressing anyone who might listen—the doctor, God, even the devil—for a miracle. Yet, in the cold reality, no one could resurrect a soul from the realms of the deceased. Life, so immensely significant for an individual, remained inconsequential in the vast expanse of the universe. As she wept, consumed by hopelessness, sorrow, and resentment, people around her continued in their own little spheres of happiness and miracles.

In the adjacent ward, the joyous cries of a newborn baby girl filled the air, a stark contrast to her mother's grief. Although the girl yearned to curse their happiness, staining it with her sadness, witnessing the miracle of life behind those doors rendered her speechless. Such was the paradoxical cruelty of life that, despite her anguish, she couldn't bring herself to cast shadows on the beauty of new beginnings.

On that day, she clung to a fragile wish, yearning for the possibility that an old life had somehow given rise to a new one—the eternal cycle of souls, the judgment of gods still vivid in her mind from the stories her grandmother had shared. The girl hoped against hope that her mother now resided in a realm adorned with gold and honey, surrounded by goodness. It became her sole source of solace.

Yet, amidst these aspirations, a small ember of resentment flickered in her heart. A resentful thought dared to insinuate that her mother had abandoned her, escaping to a blissful existence in the heavens, leaving her alone in this wretched place. The girl, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions, let out a scream of agony, collapsing to the floor. She shook the cold body of her mother, desperate for a response, yearning for a connection that transcended the realms of life and death.

"Nari," a distant voice called out to me. "God shall never abandon you, Nari, for He is not a cruel one. It's us humans who can't fathom His ways." I recalled the words of my mother, some of the last she spoke to me. She hadn't been particularly religious throughout her life, but towards the end, it seemed as if she found solace and meaning in contemplating higher realms, fostering a newfound spiritual connection.

I would often counter with, "If that's true, then why take you away?" The question echoed my lingering sense of loss and the struggle to reconcile the concept of a benevolent deity with the painful reality of her absence.