“Wow,” he commented. “And then a painter?”
“Same reason you’d fit the profile of a fiction writer. You seem like someone who’d be artistic. Someone who’d always be in high spirits because they are imagining all the time.”
“There are many depressed writers and painters, you know. Yes, they create worlds beyond ours and can easily escape into any of them. But I think there are times they find it extremely difficult to differentiate between the real and the unreal. They spend time stuck, unable to leave. And it wrecks their real life, I mean, their relationships with others.”
“Are you sure you don’t write in secret with a mysterious pen name? Because you sure sound like someone speaking from experience.”
“I’ve read a number of memoirs of famous artists, that’s all.”
I nodded. “You’re right, no profession or skill excuses one from the difficulties of life. But when I said they have a brighter outlook on life, I meant they find so much happiness in what they do. You know, they create. It’s a different level of fulfillment.”
“True.”
“Doing what you’re good at and love is fulfilling.”
“Tell me about your work. I mean, I’m not dumb, I know what nurses do. I’m asking about your experience.”
“It’s the best. Or rather, was. Seeing patients get better, seeing their worries turn into smiles and thanks, nothing can compare to that. And even when we’re in the operating room, and the tension is thick because we’re actually fighting for a life, I find myself feeling lucky to be there. The thanks I get from patients is nothing compared to the satisfaction I feel knowing that I’ve done something to make them feel better, even if I’m not the doctor or pharmacist.”
“The smile on your face is enough to tell me that you love your job.”
“I do,” I affirmed, yawning.
“And that might be sleep calling again,” he noted. “You know what? I should let you sleep for a while. And then, when you’re awake, I’ll bring you food.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
He stood and said, “Just forget everything for a while and allow your body shut down.”
“It’s easier said than done,” I replied, “But I’ll try.”
“Yeah,” he said as he left the room.
I crawled into the bed and lay there, tuning in to the tiredness of my body, trying to skip any thoughts.
**********
The sound of the door opening woke me up, and I immediately sat up in bed. The bald guy, the one who took charge of kidnapping me at the clinic, entered, his expression hard like the last time I saw him.
His icy gray eyes were on me as I silently waited for him to say whatever he had shown up for. I couldn’t vouch for my expression being friendly since I wasn’t used to my privacy being invaded; the captive status still felt foreign to me.
“I didn’t know you were asleep. I would have come later,” he said, his voice, making me wonder if he thought he was giving an explanation or rendering an apology.
However, for some reason, both his harsh voice and his hard expression didn’t make me feel like an object of hate or ridicule. It seemed to me like that was how he related to everybody. Well, maybe excluding his boss, Mr. Stone-face himself.
Rooted to the same spot, he said, “Boss wants me to let you know when the marriage will take place.”
“Has it been fixed? When would that be?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“What? Tomorrow morning? He said in a few days, how can it be tomorrow?” I question, my annoyance flaring.
“That’s how it has to be,” he said. “Everything will be set tomorrow. I just came to inform you.”
“Inform? How do you call this informing me when—” I stopped talking as the door opened and Ruslan stepped in carrying a tray.
“Oh,” Ruslan uttered on seeing the bald man. “I didn’t know you were here, boss,” he explained, then pointed his free hand towards the door. “They didn’t tell me—”
