Page 88 of Beautiful Ruins
“My family is… complicated.Chaos is not unfamiliar to me.Hospitals made sense.Order.Protocol.Structure.Blood is easier to manage when it is clinical.”
I swallowed lightly.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen?”The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
Tone went very still.For once, she didn’t make a joke.Instead, she exhaled.
“A scene call.Post-gunfight.Multiple casualties in an enclosed space.”
My stomach tightened.
“I arrived after the shooting stopped,” she revealed.“The floor was… saturated.Blood everywhere.Walls, furniture, clothing.You could smell iron before you even crossed the threshold.”
Her voice remained calm.Clinical.Detached.
“I stepped forward to check the first body, and my shoe made a sound.”
She glanced down at her feet like she could still see it there.
“A soft, wet sound.”
Something in my chest tightened.
“I looked down,” she went on, voice steady, almost bored, “and realized I’d stepped into brain matter.Grey.Mixed with blood.Spread all over the floor.”
I didn’t move.I couldn’t breathe.
“It clung to the sole,” she added.“Viscous.Warm.There were bone fragments in it.Tiny ones.”A pause.“I remember thinking I’d need to disinfect my shoes before getting back into my car.”
Of course she did.
She blinked once, then leaned back like she’d just finished explaining a minor inconvenience.
“They were my new Jimmy Choos.”
I stared at her, trying to process the priorities on display.
Truth be told, I’d seen a lot of unhinged in my life.But turning up to a murder scene in designer heels—and worrying about the dry-cleaning bill while standing in someone’s brain?That was a different breed entirely.
“You learn quickly,” she started again, “that panic is inefficient.People expect surgeons to be delicate.In reality, we are very good at functioning in environments most people would never psychologically recover from.”
I stared at her.
“You just… kept working?”
“Of course.Someone was still alive.”
A long silence followed.Then she looked at my nails.
“You smudged your thumb,” she quipped suddenly.
I blinked.
“What?”
She grabbed my hand and inspected it critically.
“This is why professionals exist,” she muttered.“Emotional discussions should not occur mid-manicure.”
