If only they had punished the man. Cara knew he was guilty, so why did the court not agree? Had they thought she was lying? She would never, ever do such a thing, and it still ate at her, feeding on her emotions, and it drove her crazy.
She knew his face. It was ingrained in her like nothing else before. But he had been declared not guilty and had then promptly disappeared. Putting her thoughts down was supposed to help, but she could never paint his picture accurately – not in words, or through pictures, because the real thing was always more. All her attempts had ended in scrunched up papers and her in a mess of tears and frustration, and that just made her angrier about it all. Every time December 13th would come around she would just feel awful. Alone and inside she would let the …show more content…
storm brew, but never out. That would be a disaster, and she had to make sure that nothing she did was compromised. It was the problem when you were angry but trusted to save lives every day.
Standing in front of the hallway mirror, Cara checked herself one more time before heading to work. Hair in a dark ponytail that went just between her shoulder blades, immaculate clothes, clean face. She tried a helpful doctor smile, but it came out strained. Oh well. It was as good as it was going to get, and she stepped out the front door and walked briskly to the bus stop that was just down the road. Her breath fogged in the cold winter’s air, and she rubbed her chocolate brown hands in effort to keep herself a bit warmer.
“Sorry, I’ll just sit here…” The bus ride was as usual, and she mumbled those words as she sat down next to an unfamiliar woman when she saw there were no other free seats. She felt vaguely uncomfortable – Cara had always been the type to enjoy time spent quietly and alone.
It had not always been like that, but perhaps that was all just a side effect of the combination of working at a job that meant you had to be outgoing all day and losing him. Nevertheless, she just shifted her legs to the side and stared straight ahead, feeling the prickle of the other people’s bored eyes resting on her, moving on for a few minutes, and then repeating the cycle over and over again. She did not like the bus much, but it was easier, so she went on it day after day after day, slipping into the routine.
Her stop came quickly and before she knew it she was out of the bus and inside the hospital. She took off her coat and left her bags as usual, keeping her face a mask of neutrality. It was time to just focus, now. Nothing else would do, it was just an ordinary day, and that was what she had to tell herself over and over for it to settle over her.
It nearly worked, actually. A few hours went by and she had put it all aside, work mode on, no outside distractions. It was something she had been praised for by her superiors, having the ability to separate work from other things and just get things done efficiently. The reasons why were more dangerous than anything - she sometimes felt like otherwise she would just break down, for heaven’s sake – but she had just smiled and nodded sharply. If they knew about her problems they would likely not keep her on, having the battle of her personal struggles and just the need for retribution bubbling inside her, ready to explode.
Twenty-four minutes past one o’clock was when Cara was called on for an emergency patient.
They were being stretched thin with an influx of patients. Some kind of road accident. She would not be dealing with any of those patients though, instead a man who had come in for the first time with an unidentified illness. He had passed out in the ambulance and was just arriving. She could not even catch his name, but pulled on her surgical gloves and hurried to where she was directed, one of the rooms nearby. She was ushered in quickly and told that a nurse would probably be with her in around fifteen minutes, to call right away if anything became too urgent, and a file was pressed into her hand. The door snapped closed with a click and she fumbled to open the file, walking towards
him.
Cara was never quite sure exactly when she realized. Whether it was the looking at his face or seeing the name written down, taken from ID that was found on him. Either way, it hit her and she froze, resisting the urge to scream and vomit. She dropped the file, and it hit the floor with a dull thud. This was wrong. She was going insane. Something had gone wrong down the line because there was no way that this could be happening. This could not be Christopher Fowler, it could not be the man that had destroyed her. No.
Because Christopher Fowler had disappeared, and as much as she wanted to find him and give him his dues, she would not be responsible for him as a patient, she would not treat the man who had murdered Cato. Not the man who had killed her twin brother and just gotten away with it. Anyone but him. The unconscious man on the table just could not be.
But he was. Thoughts raced through her head, incomprehensible thoughts, as she slowly backed away until she felt the cool of the door against her back. She groped for the handle, and her hand managed to find it. It turned halfway before she stopped and let go. She could not just leave. What would people say? What would she tell them?
And suddenly, a part of her she had locked away for years came back. It seemed to dance in front of her eyes, laughing, and then it almost seemed to whisper. She had everything she had wanted laid out in front of her, the little voice told her. The cold-blooded killer of her beloved twin helpless in front of her. She could do whatever she wanted and he would be helpless, the same way Cato had been, and at last she could be free of this huge, huge burden laid upon her.
But not like this. She had never wanted it to be like this. Her job was a different part of her, it was not to be mixed with this business. No, the other, dominant part argued back.
But was it really dominant? Was her job more important than her family? Cato loved his family, and Cara was sure that he would do what he had to, so as to make things fair and right here, right now. He would… right? Yes, yes. He would. Cato was always fiercely protective of his family. He would never doubt himself in this for a moment.
Doubt himself in what? What was this thing that he would not hesitate to do? Harm the man? Kill the man?
Cara, if she had been thinking clearly, would have been ashamed at the exhilarated rush that came with the last question. But it was only fair. An eye for an eye, a life for a life. She would be ridding the world of a murderer, giving herself the closure and Cato the honour.
She stepped forwards, a blank look on her face, but anyone who looked closely would have seen the bright look in her eyes, the hint of something not right. She glanced at the clock. Only a few minutes had past. She had thirteen minutes before someone was apparently going to come in. Thirteen, ha. The day today, the day her twin had died. Thirteen. She flicked her eyes towards the body, stepping ever closer until she was standing right next to him and looking him over. Stringy red hair. Half-open blue eyes. Pale, yellow-tinged skin that screamed something wrong with the liver. His expression was settled with a sneer, and that annoyed her so much that it almost tipped her. She looked at the clock again. Still thirteen minutes. Not quite twelve yet.
“Looks like you’re unlucky.” Thirteen. A funny little number. Unlucky for him. She would be getting her own back today, and he would be atoning. Fair was fair. He got away first time, never again. She was doing the right thing.
A strange smile drifted onto her face and Cara walked towards a cupboard. Opening it, there were many bottles inside. She did not even look at the labels, taking a flask and pouring whatever she saw into it. A mix of many different things, surely toxic. She stopped when it was full, dropping the bottles back and carrying the flask back to the body. She paused and saw the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady beeping of the monitor depicting his heart rate. Closing her eyes for a minute, then tipping Fowler’s head back to open his airway.
“Bye, bye,” she said in a singsong kind of voice. Cara poured the concoction down his throat mercilessly, and she could have sworn that he twitched, but she did not stop. Soon the whole thing was gone and she stepped back.
Now. What now? Her eyes flickered between the man and the monitor, and he looked fine. A glance at the clock. Four minutes. She walked back over to the cupboard and took all of the used bottles, using water from the tap to make them look as though they were the same volume as before. She put them all back and closed the cupboard.
One and a half minutes. The nurse that would be checking on her would be here soon, probably earlier than she would expect. She took her place at the man’s side and arranged the tools she would have used for an examination around him, smirking as his heart rate began to fall.
It got lower and lower and she was transfixed on the murderer and the sound of the monitor beeping. This was it. She felt alive, like she was in her element, her true human embodiment.
The door opened and a nurse hurried in. The monitor’s noise faded to a single line and note, and Cara fixed her gleeful grin to a worried and upset look as she turned to the nurse.
“We’ve lost him.” She gestured towards his body. “Analysis shows liver problems, likely some sort of tumour,” she said, although that was entirely from first glances, but probably accurate. “-and it seems like he had taken in various overdoses of different chemicals and drugs which lead to a series of failures.”
She talked further with the nurse, who went to go and get someone. Cara did not bother to hang around. The game would be up as soon as they looked closer at the body, but at least she had time to go. Maybe home, for a nice cup of tea.
She walked out briskly, throwing the gloves in the bin and going to grab her coat and bag. Once she had everything, she hurriedly left the hospital. Walking would not be fast enough, nor the bus, so maybe a taxi…?
There it was. A taxi started down the road and she walked forwards, flagging it down and jumping in. It was a short ride home before she went inside and turned on the kettle, settling down into an armchair that faced the window. She glanced at the missed calls on her phone and threw it away without replying.
She had done it. She had killed the man who had murdered her twin. She had gotten her revenge. At last.
But… the longer she sat, the more she thought, and she realized that the little voice had disappeared. She listened – silence. No congratulations, no more elation. Everything seemed less fuzzy. She seemed to fall out of her numbed state and the thought of what she had done overtook her. She had murdered someone. She had murdered her patient.
Perhaps, her mind, the part that had told her to keep him alive, said, he had a family. Perhaps he had children. Or a wife. Or parents. Or friends. Perhaps he had a twin that would do anything to avenge him.
She looked to the right, and saw herself reflected in a mirror. Well, there it was, plain to see. Her reflection. Fowler was like her, she was like Fowler. About half an hour ago she had killed someone in cold blood in the space of fifteen minutes, and Cara was upset at him? She was lying to herself if she said that she felt better about herself, completely lying.
What was retribution when it destroyed you more than before?
The kettle whistled, and the sirens began to draw near.