Call Out

Shawn Xavier Sollertia

Being a doctor enables me to have control over the lives of my personal patients, choosing to take or keep their lives, that is simply a privilege that no other possible career can possibly offer me. It becomes as simple as flipping a reverse card at a family game of Uno, anyone could do it but at the cost of severing all existing bonds. Well yes, alternatives such as law enforcement and executions uphold the same value, yet it is limited to other countries so the field of medicine presents itself as a consistent option. Becoming a doctor was simply ideal. One receives this facade of respect and reputation that is tied into the bundle of 'saving lives', the pay is pretty decent too. You get a nice cloak and your own office room too.

   It too is the perfect job for me, it really is.

   No one would suspect a highly reputable doctor as a potential kidnapper, no one does, no one does, no one does.

   Except... no one will.

Pablo always wondered why I studied so hard in chemistry and biology, wanting to get into a good medical school and I would always reply with "Because I want to become a doctor," now I've realised that I've never decided why. Sure, Pabs had asked "why?" too at times but I'd always reply by brushing it off with something generic like, "to save lives" or for "a stable job with good pay,". It's kind of sad, honestly. Maybe he's just bitter that I passed with flying colours on the recent Biology test. It's not that hard to tell the difference between meiosis and mitosis and their states. Or so I hope.

   And even so, what field do I intend to even get into? Surgery? No, too risky, what if I leave a tool inside a patient's body? I can't just view the human as a sculpture, it's living, breathing flesh. Dental? What if I destroy someone's teeth by accident or worse of all, pluck out the wrong one? I could never hold that sort of responsibility, I might as well do more harm than good.

    Would she want me to become a doctor?

    Mum...

   Can you believe that it's been two years since she passed and I was taken in by the Woodards? Yeah, make all the orphan jokes but I'm grateful for everything John and Sue did for me. I still remember it, I still do. Everything, every small overlooked detail has been stored up in here. I don't tell everyone but I still wake up sweating with the same images resurfacing in my dreams, a memory quite painful it melded into the mind — good thing floor two is soundproof. It was a windy Thursday afternoon within a hazy March when I was still a filthy fifteen-year-old teen. I knocked on our apartment's door, expecting Mum to open up. She didn't. So I grabbed the keys from my bag, the jingles, the clatter and the echoes would remind, never dissipating. As if it had been I who swallowed a solution of iron, the faint scratch hitching on the back of my throat. Mum was on the floor, her skin spouted incurable spots and bruises of red, it had flared up, it had ALL gotten worse and Perdita hid it all this time. Then I broke. I cried. I scream. I lost.

   After that I finally came to my senses, called the ambulance, a white van, paramedics dragged her on a stretcher, they attached wires and a breathing mask and I sat in the back holding onto her hand. I was disadviced to do so for medical reasons. But I knew this was the last time I'd ever get to feel the warmth in her limbs before it slipped out of reach forever. They didn't tell me at the time but I knew. She died. She did. If only she had taken chemo instead of sacrificing her money for me. Why couldn't humans just act more selfishly?

   John always sits me down with a plate of cookies when he senses the misery inside of me, he insists that the sweetness ought to wash away the sadness, telling me that she's in a better place on the other side. I believe that people cling to religion for hope. His methods are strange but I appreciate it, there are still good people in the world.