Page 11

CHAPTER 11

Ben

I 'm standing alone in the kitchen, the damp tablecloth clutched in my hands, feeling the weight of the evening's chaos settle around me like a thick fog. Max has just stormed out, leaving behind a swirl of confusion and a wine-stained reminder of what just happened. My heart races, thudding loudly in my chest, almost drowning out the quiet of the now empty house.

As I begin to soak the wine up from the table, my thoughts churn wildly. That scar—large, jagged, unmistakable—it's familiar in a way that sends shivers down my spine. I’ve seen it before, not on some random stranger in the street, but in the sterile, bright lights of an operating room. The realization hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.

Could Max have been a patient of mine? The odds seem astronomical, yet the scar’s unique contours haunt me with the precision of a memory I can’t fully grasp. I remember the surgery, a desperate case, a young man brought in with a wound so severe it was a miracle he survived. Hadn’t that young man been a survivor of the most notorious serial killer The Butcher? My blood runs cold. But was that young man, Max? Could it have been?

I toss the ruined cloth into the sink, water splashing up to dot my shirt with its cold embrace. Ethics swirl through my mind—a maze of professional obligations and personal feelings. If Max was my patient, revealing that fact could change everything between us. It could be seen as a breach of trust, yet keeping it to myself feels equally deceitful, especially when our relationship may hinge on the truths we share or the secrets we keep.

I need to be sure before I say anything to Max. The Chief of Surgery at the hospital might remember or at least guide me on how to handle this without violating HIPAA regulations. Our computer systems are secure, a fortress of privacy, which means I can't just pull up Max’s records on a hunch. I need a valid reason, something more than a nagging feeling stirred up by a scar seen in a moment of vulnerability.

As I wipe down the counters, my mind replays the evening—the laughter we shared, the way Max’s eyes lit up in conversation, how comfortable it felt just being near him. He’s remarkable, and in the soft glow of my kitchen lights, he seemed almost ethereal, a stark contrast to the very real fear that flashed across his face when he caught me staring at his scar.

Am I even worthy of someone like Max? Doubts creep in, uninvited but persistent. He’s vibrant, alive in ways that challenge the quiet routine of my life. What if he’s too much for me? What if my own insecurities tarnish this thing that’s just beginning to bloom between us?

Shaking my head, I try to dispel the dark thoughts clouding my mind. I need to focus on what’s important—figuring out the truth about the scar and its implications for both our pasts. Tomorrow, I’ll speak to the Chief. I’ll find a way to navigate this without causing unnecessary pain.

For now, though, the kitchen is clean, and the echoes of our evening together linger in the air like a promise. I switch off the light, the last vestiges of doubt mingling with a cautious hope. Maybe, just maybe, we can find a way through this—whatever this turns out to be.