“Will the two of you stop it!” I snap, cheeks burning hotter.
Natalia is already pulling up her phone again, triumphant, a photo of the band in full lighting up her screen.
Obelus commands the center, guitar strapped across a body that finally fits the space it occupies. Leather and paint cling to muscle and shadow, black veil hiding everything but those dark, almond-shaped eyes that still carry the same haunted pull, dangerous now, but with the shy boy flickering beneath it if you know where to look.
Behind him, Threnos hammers the drums like a war chant, dark-blond hair half-shaved and wild in contrast, face marked in blue and white, piercing eyes flashing through a solid black veil as he holds the entire thing together by force of rhythm alone.
Bomos anchors the left, broad and immovable, bass cradled like bedrock, his presence felt more than seen even through the veil. He’s not shirtless in this picture, which is unusual for him, he likes to show off all the muscle beneath.
Haima bends into the music like it’s in his blood, curls falling into his eyes, stitched veil grinning its familiar bloody smile, silk and crimson moving with him like he's the pied piper and it's answering his call.
Together they don’t just look like a band. They look like a rite in progress, every line of Greek etched into their stage names alive in them: Obelusthe Sacrifice, Bomosthe Altar,Haimathe Blood,and Threnosthe Lament.
Tata squints at the screen, holding the phone out at arm’s length. “They can’t be the same boys from your posters.”
I laugh, unable to help myself. “Told you.”
“He looksmore than filled out, kochana!” Tata snorts. “He looksweighed down. So much metal on his face! Look at his eyebrows and ears, can he even move?”
Piotr nearly chokes from laughing, pounding the table with his free hand while jostling the baby in the other. Natalia fans herself dramatically. “Please. Bomos isgorgeous, look at him.”
I grin sideways at her. “Yeah, I figured he’d be your favorite.”
Dinner runs late, plates scraped clean, stories piling over one another until everyone’s talking at once. Eventually Mama waves me off when I try to help with dishes, packing leftovers into foil instead. “For tomorrow, I worry.” she insists, pressing the plate into my hands like it’s nonnegotiable.
By the time I slip out, the night air has cooled even more, biting almost. I tuck the plate onto the passenger seat, start the car, and scroll for the track I want. Obelus’s voice cuts through the speakers as I pull away from the curb, relentless, spilling every emotion he holds into the dark. By the time I pull into my driveway, the spell is still clinging, until my phone buzzes.
I glance at the screen, and the breath leaves me. A message from the clinic. The finalized on-call roster. My name stares back. Friday night. The exact Friday night of the concert. Eight weeks from now.
For a moment I just sit there, staring at it like it might change if I blink hard enough. My first time on the on-call rotation asa real attending.It should feel like a milestone, proof that I’ve finally arrived. Instead, all I feel is dread.
“No, no, no, no…” The words rasp out before I can stop them, rattling in the empty car. How could I have forgotten?
The horror sets in: the stage I’ve dreamed of for years replaced with the beep of an ancient pager, the endless possibility of emergencies that don’t care about the band I love, about the girl I used to be.
The first attempt at being something other than duty-bound, and life reminds me exactly why I haven’t bothered. My first official week as Dr. Sawadzka, and I’m already screwing it up.
Chapter 5
No Sick In Doctor
By the next evening, the leftovers are already stacked in my fridge, foil lids crimped tight. I’m pacing the living room pretending to tidy up, muttering at myself, when the front door clicks open and Piotr breezes in like he owns the place. I’d asked him to come over, a little surprise that now feels ruined by fate.
He kicks off his boots, and immediately starts rummaging in the fridge. A minute later the microwave drones, and he’s perched at my counter with Mama’s pierogi on a plate, bottle of beer in his hand like it’s his natural state of being.
“You look like hell,” he announces cheerfully, watching me wear a groove into the rug. “What happened? Blind a patient?”
I groan and collapse onto the arm of the sofa. “Worse.”
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. “Worse thanblinding?”
“The clinic schedule came out.”
He blinks, unimpressed. “And?”
“I’mon-callthe night of the concert.”
There’s a beat of silence before he explodes. “Kurwa!” He slams his fork down dramatically. “Not your sacred eyeliner man and his altar boys!”
