A past once told
Clara Visteria was a good doctor, really. She was born in California, America, into a mediocre family. She was not mediocre.
She took to knowledge with the ease of a fish to water, never drowning no matter the volume. Tests came easy to her. Studying was a breeze. And so she came to love the rush of knowledge. Information was easy to come by in the age of technology, where most things are available online.
She was a soft child, kind and gentle. She loves so fiercely it hurts, care so deeply it cuts her up. And she would always do so. Love was is something she never understands, but knows intimately nonetheless.
She grew up not unloved, yet not truly loved either. The middle child of a family of four, and yet again and again she must take on the role of the mother.
The oldest boy was a rough one, unwanted yet loved. He rode roughshod in life and gambled away his future, nevertheless he tried his best for his siblings. There would always be money on the counter when he left the house, and no matter how hard he had it, he still made sure to get the kids something to snack on.
The second girl was lackluster. She didn’t quite try at all. Mediocre at its best. And yet when worse came to shove, she was the one to stand up against their father and left the house. She was a place of safety for the others when it became too much.
The youngest was a bratty little boy who clung to his sister with all his might. He fought for what he believed in, and his smile was miles wide. He shone like the sun and burned like wildfire. He never let his sister be harmed, even if he had to stand in the way.
She was the third, not youngest or oldest, but she was the link of their home. Father and mother tried, but they never seem to realize love is more than just providing what is needed and wanted. First brother and sister fought, because they didn't think the way the other spent their life was good enough. Youngest and oldest found their peace, but were distant all the same. Sister loved but cared for less than should be. She was the pride and light of the household, getting awards after awards after awards. She stood out, and so they showered her in what they could.
She was the “scapegoat”, who fought valiantly for a family made of love but never rewarded with what she wanted. It should hurt, except it was expected, so she drowned herself in information and lessons and everything she can get her hands on.
She succeeded. Bandaging wounds turned into medical textbooks when they thought she was interested. Kitchen knife never left, but needles and threads made their way to her hands. Pens and pencils became familiar through exposure, so much that she would know which pens of hers she was using even blindfolded.
Being a doctor was rewarding. A surgeon even more. There were people, alive, heart beating, and in her hand a scalpel. She had their lives in her hold and it’s an exhilarating thing to race against death and keep them alive.
Being a surgeon was tiring work. So she happily drowned herself in endless precise motion, brain jumping from one patient to another, fitting symptoms into categories and illness to names, hands ever so steady. She disguised emotions behind a benign smile and twinkling eyes, keeping up the appearance of a good and joyous sister. Their family fell apart, but she held it together through sheer will and tapes.
It was ironic, really, that most of their family died in the hospital. Half of them under her watch.
First died due to an accident. Dead on the surgery bed and no miracle to save his life. His blood stained her hand.
Second died due to a disease. No treatment kept her alive.
Father and mother died young, excessive drinking doing them in. They smiled at her and said they were proud.
She died too, in the hospital. Ironic, isn’t it, that the surgeon would die too in the surgery room.
What a disaster.
On her last breath, she whispered reverently, praying to “-anyone, please, if you can hear me, please please please, let me be with them -“
Maybe someone heard her, but she wouldn’t know, because the void was endless -
Clara floated in the void, unseen, unheard, untouched. She couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe , but she existed, in a hazy sort of mind state, where nothing matters and everything did.
Clara thought it made her a little crazier than she used to be. After all, hallucinations aren’t really signs of a healthy mind. If she couldn’t see , how do those green eyes keep appearing in her eyes? Fleeting touches that were just the same temperature as the void was not supposed to be. Then again, what did she know?
She drifted in and out of that state, barely aware yet knowing. It felt… nice. Not having to think about every interaction, every word she spoke. It’s like laying still on a waterbed, moving with the current. No gravity or anything holding her down. It’s free.
No more anything to worry about. Lives weren’t under her hands. She didn’t have to save anyone. She couldn’t.
She drifted.