My Dearest Morphine
an excerpt

“I’m sorry…”

He emitted a deadly cry, as if the entire world fell on his shoulders and he couldn’t support its weight. The cry was worse than that of thousands of tortured infants, worse than the moaning of the dead. It was filled with pure desperation and anguish. The great Christopher Whiting fell so far down that he couldn’t even dare to look up.

Suddenly, I felt something crush my breasts. I sighed, feeling a bit of relief. The great Christopher Whiting lowered himself; he was in my arms, sobbing like an infant. He was so debased that nothing mattered anymore. He clung to me even more desperately than the worse of my patients. I could feel his warm breath on my cold and dry skin and his warm tears streaking down my blouse, traversing my shirt and touching my heart. I was relieved that he reached out for me but soon, I regretted that he did. Although I knew that this was the first step to recovery, I preferred his blank-stare state. His pains were seeping physically and magically across our skins, reaching my vulnerable heart. Piled on top of the pains that I absorbed from Kate a week ago, this new pain crushed my lungs. I couldn’t breathe at all. This was a new pain that I just couldn’t bear. Darkness slowly overcame me as I fell into desperation. But just before I was completely enveloped in unconsciousness, I saw a rare smile grace Christopher Whiting’s lips. I didn’t have enough time to decipher his smile but I optimistically viewed it as a smile of relief on his part.

I fell cold on the couch, my head hanging in midair as a cushion barely supported my back. His frozen tears soaked through my blouse, through my bra but somehow, somehow I felt a warm hand on my chest. It was a new hope for me, the first time that someone was going to heal me of my pains.