—— the cut ——
Rosie Archer was born to cut. She was sure, that even if her father hadn't been a surgeon, even if medicine wasn't in her blood, wrapping around her organs, rushing through her veins, she was made for it. Holding a scalpel in your hand was powerful, in that moment you hold the life of another human being in your very own hands, you decide when and where to cut, gowned, and gloved, the weight of a family on your shoulders, pressure heavy in your chest. Despite this, Rosie couldn't remember the last time she was filled with nerves when holding a scalpel. The power made her calm and collected. She relished in it, the momentary rush always overcame her, and the first cut added to it.
Her thoughts swam with surgeries, past and present, patients, and charts, she bled, sweated, and poured every inch of her soul into surgery. Not once had she questioned her need to cut, it had just been there, engraved into her skull, her father's words echoing in her mind on a loop - cut, cut, cut.
She sighed as she glanced at her bedroom table, the hands of the clock ticked by, laughing at her with every small sound they made. Four thirty-two am.
You don't need sleep, she repeated to herself in her head - a mantra - you need to prepare for this interview, you need somewhere to finish your residency that is not New York, not anywhere near Ryan, you need this.
You need surgery, you need to cut.
cut, cut, cut.
She peeled herself away from the covers, scraping her hair into a ponytail as she trailed around her room, scooping her leggings off the floor, throwing them on, alongside a sweater, and slipping on her shoes at the door. Rosie had barely opened her eyes by the time she was out the door, tucking her key into her pocket, and running. God, she hated running, despised it. Her shins ached, splintering under her skin. Her feet hurt, soles crying out at every step she took. Her lungs burned, fire nestling through every fiber of her chest. But one thing was clear - she was alive. The pain made her feel alive, and that was all that mattered. She was in Seattle, she was running, she was not in her father's house.
Her father's house.
The house was welcoming from the outside, a pale-painted brick house, a beach deck out front, a picket fence, and a gardener tending to the roses. Inside the walls were lined with awards, achieved by her father in one of many surgeries. There were a few photos of Rosie intermittently, dotted about the house. From the outside, it seemed her father adored her. The floor was a brown, old-fashioned parquet, scratched from her childhood dog Max, and the walls were a pure white, sterile, fresh, like an operating theatre.
It was fitting, that the house looked like a hospital. Ryan Archer's main concern had always been laid inside the four walls of a hospital, never his home.
"You'll understand when you're a grown-up," he had said to five-year-old Rosie, "surgery is more important than anything in the world Rosie, far more important than playing princess, being a doctor is everyone's dream, you are a legacy."
Naive young Rosie had asked what a legacy is, pouting as her pinky pouffy princess dress had gone to waste, with no friends to show it off to, and no crown to pair with it. Her cheeks were red and tear-streaked, as her birthday party had been canceled - her father had been called to partake in emergency surgery.
Therefore Rosie sat idly in the gallery, her second home, where she had waited for five hours for her father, crying because she wasn't allowed to stay and play princess. She needed an apology from her father, for the party to be rescheduled, only all she received was a lecture on the importance of surgery, his job. Rosie had learned by the age of five that nothing in her life would ever, should ever, be more important than cutting.
