𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒
Can be read as a standalone.
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In a quaint country where promises were etched in stone, a man named Arhan sought revenge for a past slight. He feigned love for Ananya, a woman whose heart was...
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ANANYA
Suddenly, a piercing scream cut through the background. My smile vanished as I turned to see a crowd gathering around a cot. There, a boy lay motionless, his chest marred by multiple stab wounds, each one a grotesque mouth whispering of violence.
"Hey?" Arhan spoke on the other side.
"I am sorry I have to go" I quickly explained to Arhan, my voice trembling, and ended the call.
As I rushed towards the chaos, the hospital's air was thick with panic. Nurses sprinted past, their faces etched with urgency, while shouts for doctors echoed off the sterile walls.
I reached the patient, the boy's pale face a stark contrast to the crimson that stained his shirt.
"Dr.Athurva is currently at the er" One of the nurse yelled.
"Ananya you have to do it" Asra spoke.
No doctors were available- it was up to me.
I scrubbed my hands fiercely, the water turning pink as it swirled down the drain. I lathered them with soap, then with antiseptic, ensuring every inch was clean.
Gloves snapped against my wrists, the sound a sharp reminder of the task ahead. I donned a surgical mask, the smell of chemicals clinging to the inside.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the doors to the ER open. The room was a flurry of activity; nurses prepared instruments, and a helping doctor offered a nod of solidarity. I approached the operating table, the boy's shallow breaths a metronome to our actions.
"Scalpel," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. The cold metal felt like an extension of myself as I made the first incision. The room faded away- it was just me, the patient, and the delicate dance of life and death.
Every stitch was a note in a symphony, every clamp a beat in time. We fought together, the boy and I, against the silent threat that lurked within his wounds.
The surgery was a blur, a whirlwind of decisions and precision. But through it all, I held onto one clear thought: I would not let this boy slip away. Not on my watch.
During the operation, I felt a mix of adrenaline and determination. My heart raced as I made each incision, my hands steady despite the gravity of the situation. The boy's life hung in the balance, and I couldn't afford to falter.
Fear and focus danced within me-fear of failure, of not being enough, but also a fierce determination to save him. The room faded away, leaving only the rhythmic pulse of the surgery, the weight of responsibility, and the unwavering commitment to fight for every suture, every stitch.
It was a race against time, a desperate symphony of skill and hope, and I clung to the belief that my hands could weave life from the threads of despair. The boy's heartbeat echoed in my ears, urging me forward, and I pushed aside any doubt.
