Viewed from the harbor, Breasal Oncology Centre was barely clinging to the edge of Carrick's Bluff. Draped as it was in its medieval clothing, its crenelated walls bombarded with ivy and swallow nests, the clinic seemed a fortress out of the Dark Ages. One could hardly imagine this was one of the most modernly equipped facilities south of Dublin. Inside the old mansion thousands of yards of cables were weaving through like tentacles of an electrical octopus.
Day in and day out, people of Wicklow, a town on the rugged Eastern coast of Ireland, were climbing the twisting alleys to Breasal, most of them not very happy with their destination. Among them Susan Kelly -- a doctor at the Centre.
That morning Susan had woken up frustrated after a night spent writhing in the cold sweats of bad dreams. As she passed by the newsstand she slowed down her pace -- a glance at the headlines and it was enough for her to realize this was just an ordinary Wednesday, one more on the endless string of Wednesdays at Breasal, the place where she had begun working after graduating from Dublin Medical Academy, some fifteen years ago.
Up the winding brick alley, in through the automatic door, a right turn, a left turn, a short walk through the transparent passageway allowing a brief glimpse of the sea, and there it was: The Cave, another name for the hallway where her patients would be stirring about like cattle at the slaughterhouse.
YOU ARE READING
The Sphere
Short StorySusan lives on the lush coast of eastern Ireland, taking care of her daughter and her many patients. But an enemy Susan is intimately familiar with begins a full on assault on her duties as a mother and a doctor. **This story received 2nd prize at t...
