fight

Flourecent light pours into the patient's pupils and reflects off the spotless white tile. blue and green pant legs speak of authority and gravity. the young man brushes his brown hair from his peircing, silver-blue eyes. he tightens his mask and covers his skin with latex. with scalpel in one hand and anesthetic in the other he prepares to enter the tense and quiet room.
Intricacy and delicacy dominate his work. extreme attention to the minute details have made his steady hands the most trusted. the ornateness of his work makes his young heart feel alive. steel and blood meet as the artist perfects his masterpeice. in a matter of seeminlgy no time at all, he signals for the clamp and puts the final touches on his patient.
Glistening, cold beads of sweat spill down his brow. he slowly exits the room and wipes his head in triumph. his diligent hands wear no lines of defeat. fingers move to peel the blood-stained plastic from his hands. young heart slows, almost to a stop, as he looks at the clock and realizes that his work here is done for now. slowly and hesitantly he opens the door and walks out into the still and mild night.
Hands grasping coat, his young eyes notice the palm trees on the beach swaying in the gentle, warm breeze. no signs of life on the city streets, with the exception of the young night commuter. all the lights dimmed hours ago, but his legs are accustomed to this travel and his eyes are accumstomed to the light of street lamps. entering the hall, he searches his pockets for his key and closes his door behind himself, as if by accident. empty picture frames line the walls of his desolate, one-room appartment. dust lies heavy on his bed as he has found a dearer friend in the couch. in this silent and solitary room every single fear comes true.
Thoughts shift to the wretched machine that stares at him from afar. his worst enemy and most hated appliance beckons him to draw near. everything within tells him not to give in but in a matter of seconds his legs pull him closer. he tries all he can to escape but the door moves further away with every step. shutting his eyes, he holds his breath as he expects to see the number that haunts all his dreams. the same number that he always saw when the machine called to him, the same number of patients who had died in his care, the same number of true friends he had, and the same number of risks he had taken in his calculated and safe life. fingers slowly uncover his fearful eyes and he gazes in astonishment at the number 1. he falls to his knees and tears quickly fall into a puddle on the hardwood floor. a hand was stretching out, contact was made to prove that someone cared. to prove that he was not alone.