Page 10 of Broken Dream

I grab a tissue to clean up the mess.

I look up. The door to the classroom is still ajar. I watch Angie retreat, her brown ponytail swaying against the small of her back, until she disappears from view. It somehow feels like losing a part of me—a part I didn’t even know existed until today.

The silence in the room is overwhelming, each tick of the clock on the wall echoing in my ears.

Hmm.

Angie’s voice clouds my mind. Her words. About psychiatry being important, about it being a way to heal people. Even though I know she’s wrong about it in my case, maybe she’s right overall. Maybe I’m being too harsh.

Until an image slams back into my head.

My own experience with psychiatry, the countless sessions spent on a leather couch, dissecting my dreams and fears, only to be left more confused and lost than before. The constant popping of pills that dulled my senses but never soothed my soul. And the loss…

No, psychiatry didn’t help me.

It only made things worse.

I rub my forehead with my ink-stained hand, hoping to ease the headache that’s beginning to pulse in my temples.

Angie’s face flashes in my mind once more—her eyes filled with conviction, her lips curved into a defiant smile. I can’t help but feel drawn to her. Something about her passion for psychiatry captivates me, regardless of my own contempt for it.

As much as I hate to admit it, Angie has sparked something in me.

Something I haven’t felt in a long time.

I sigh, leaning back in my chair and massaging my temples. The headache is only getting worse, but there’s a part of me that likes the pain. It’s an annoying throb that just feels real.

Teaching anatomy lab was certainly never my calling.

But it’s what I’m stuck with now.

A surgeon who can’t cut.

A surgeon who can’t cut is like a bird that can’t fly, a fish that can’t swim. It’s a paradox, an anomaly. I let out a bitter laugh.

I open the box and stare at my scalpel—a memento from an era when I had the power to heal with my hands. I close my eyes and remember the OR. The metallic smell of blood, the steady beep of the heart monitor, and the adrenaline rush that came with every cut.

Then a knock on the cracked door.

I snap my eyes open.

Standing in the doorway is Angie, her face flushed from what must have been a hurried walk back to the classroom.

“I forgot something,” she says softly, avoiding eye contact. She walks over to her desk and picks up a small notebook.

“Angie,” I begin, unsure of what to say next.

My mind is a whirlpool of thoughts and emotions that threaten to swallow me whole. Something about this woman pulls at a thread inside me and threatens to unravel the tightly woven defense I’ve built over the past years.

She pauses, her hand still clutching the notebook. “Yes?” Her voice is light, but there’s a slight tremor in it.

I won’t read anything into it. She’s embarrassed. That’s all. She left her notebook, and I’m her professor.

I want to apologize for my insensitivity regarding her chosen field. But the words don’t come.

Instead, I settle on, “You left quite an impression today.”

She turns to face me, her eyebrows furrowed. “Do you mean that in a good way or a bad way?”