Chapter 3: Heights of Misery Part 1

Zoya’s P.O.V

“The Chief Surgeon called you to his office,” Maya, the head nurse of this department, peeped into the room, knocking on the door twice to get my attention. “I think he wants to talk to you about your transfer.”

“Oh, thank you, Maya,” I said, smiling graciously at her as I stand to head immediately to the surgeon's office.

Maya was a kind middle-aged woman who was practically born to be a nurse and caretaker. She was well-attuned to her environment and recognized everyone's needs before the people themselves realize it. She was nice in all sense of the word, and I really admired her work ethic. Maya was one of the select few that I actually liked in this hospital.

“Oh, I can't believe your residency has come to an end, my love,” she told me, her face a canvas of sadness. Her lips curved into a pout. “It's too soon, if you ask me. I'll surely miss you.”

“I'll miss you too, Maya,” I told her sincerely, taking her hands in mine and squeezing them. “You and your kindness made this place home for me.”

With one last lingering look and sad smile at Maya, I walked past her to head to the chief surgeon's office. It wasn't a very long walk to the room, so within a few minutes, I was already knocking on his door. “It's Zoya, doc,” I said, “I was told you wanted to see me.”

“Ah, Zoya,” came his voice from the other side of the door. “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

I opened the door to find Alexis Salvador, the chief of surgery, by the couch, a drink in his hand, even though it was only five in the afternoon. On the table was the bottle of scotch that he liked to save for special occasions. I felt touched that he considered my transfer to a different hospital a cause for celebration. That meant he was happy for me, now that I was taking a big leap in my career.

“Sit,” he said to me, nodding toward one of the only two chairs in the area. He waited until I sat down before he himself took the other seat. He poured me glass of scotch, which I accepted graciously, even though I was not much of a drinker, as it was the polite thing to do.

“Your residency has come to an end, Mehra,” Dr. Salvador told me, taking a swig of alcohol. He liked to refer to us residents by our last names, saying that it made him feel like a professor. And all the while, his eyes were on mine the whole time, never breaking contact. “It was a pleasure and an honor to work alongside you. You're one of the most brilliant minds here. It’ll be sad to see you go.”

“Thank you, doc,” I said, smiling. I tilted my glass toward him slightly, the way I would a toast, and some of his attention turned towards my sleeveless arms, instantly making me a bit self-conscious. To a degree, I felt a chill of discomfort run up my spine. “Your words are greatly appreciated.”

He downed his glass and reached for the bottle, scooting his chair closer in the process. He poured himself another drink. “You know…there’s been an opening in the hospital recently. A senior doctor just retired and an opening came up in a junior position.”

That instantly drew my attention. A position? At this hospital itself? Wouldn’t that be a dream come true?

“That promotion,” he said, in a bit of a slurred voice that didn’t quite sit well with me. “You really want it?”

I nodded. “I do.”

His hand went from the bottle of scotch to my leg in a blink of an eye. “And you're willing to do anything just to get it?”

I froze. I could not concentrate on his words; all I could think of was his hand on my thigh, his thumb stroking circles on my skin. “I…”

His hand rose, lifting the hem of my skirt along with it. He palmed the inside of my left thigh, and even though his hand was warm, I felt chilled to my bones. “You know,” he said, and despite the small, terrible smile on his face, his voice was anything but friendly. “If you refuse, I could send you to some faraway place instead of New York. And you would regret crossing me.”

He leaned down so his mouth was next to my ear, and as he did so, his hand travelled further up my thigh, disappearing under my dress. “I could ruin your life,” he warned me, as if I didn't already know that.

When I didn't respond, he pressed his lips against my neck, and it took everything in me not to ball my hands into fists around the glass in fear of cracking it and hurting myself, but I gripped the edge of the seat tightly until my knuckles blanched white. I was completely, utterly frozen, and my mind was desperately blank.

And the memory was so painful that I had to forcefully shake myself out of it and return to the present, back in my room where I was packing my bags.

My mind had drifted to the events earlier as I had been thinking about why I had to come home before my shift at the hospital was over. I didn't mean to get sucked into that traumatic memory; it just happened.

I sighed, and folded the last shirt in my closet, rolled it up, and stuffed it in my luggage bag.

I had managed to run away from that wretched place in the afternoon, half-way through my shift. I had dumped my drink on top of his head, shocking him enough that he had let me go, long enough for me to make a run for it. I thought I was safe, then. I thought I could hurry home, curl into Ravi's arms and cry for hours until Dr. Salvador's palm no longer burned holes into my skin, searing a part of himself into me so he could ruin my life if he so pleased.