It only takes one signature to erase everything she had worked for. And a single piece of paper to make her world crumble.
She is dying.
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Maeverys sat stiffly in the uncomfortable plastic chair, her back as straight as a ruler, hands clasped tightly in her lap. The conference room felt like a morgue—cold, sterile, and filled with the stench of something dead and rotting, though here it was her career. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the faces of the four doctors seated before her, their expressions as rigid as the starched white coats they wore. She noted the slight tremor in her hands, hidden beneath the table, and clenched them tighter to still the unwanted display of weakness.
"Dr. Han," Dr. Marshall, the head of the panel, finally spoke, his voice as dry and lifeless as the stack of papers before him. He didn’t look up as he shuffled through the documents, his eyes shielded by thin, wire-rimmed glasses that reflected the sterile light. Maeve resisted the urge to snap at him, to demand he look her in the eye while he ruined her life. She could feel the cold stare of Dr. Patel next to him, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval, as if Maeve’s mere presence offended her.
"We’ve reviewed the case thoroughly," Dr. Marshall continued, "and the evidence against you is substantial. The patient’s death—"
"The patient’s death was unavoidable," Maeve interjected, her voice sharp, slicing through the heavy air. A brief flicker of something—was it surprise?—passed over Dr. Patel’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. "You all know that," she added, her tone flat, though the venom underlying it was unmistakable.
Dr. Marshall paused, finally looking up. His eyes, a washed-out brown, were devoid of warmth. "Regardless," he said, "the accusations are serious, and there’s enough to suggest negligence."
Negligence. The word hung in the air like a noose. Maeve’s fingers dug into her palms, nails biting into her flesh, but she refused to show anything more. "If I’m guilty of anything," she said, her voice low, "it’s of working my ass off to save a kid no one else could."
Dr. Patel’s mouth tightened further, if that was even possible, and she leaned forward. "Your attitude, Dr. Han, has been noted. Your colleagues have mentioned it numerous times. It’s clear you’ve made no effort to work as a part of this team."
Maeve almost laughed at that—a bitter, hollow sound in the back of her throat. "My attitude?" she echoed, her lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "You mean, I didn’t play your game of politics. I didn’t kiss the right asses, so now it’s convenient to throw me under the bus."
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"Enough." Dr. Marshall’s voice was hard now, all pretense of impartiality gone. "We’re not here to discuss your demeanor. We’re here because a child died, and whether you like it or not, Dr. Han, you were the one responsible."
The finality in his tone was like a slap to the face. She blinked, her vision narrowing, the edges of the room blurring as she focused on his face—on the mouth that had just condemned her, on the hands that were about to sign away her career. She wanted to scream, to shout that they were the ones responsible, that the system was broken, that the patient’s death was on them, not her. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Her throat felt tight, her tongue heavy.
Dr. Marshall picked up his pen. The sound of it scratching against the paper was deafening in the silence of the room. Maeve watched as he signed her fate with a few quick strokes, his signature a black, jagged scar on the white sheet. When he finished, he set the pen down, the click of it hitting the table like a gunshot.
"It’s done," he said simply. "Your medical license is revoked effective immediately. You may gather your things and leave."
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She sat there for a moment longer, the weight of his words pressing down on her chest like a lead blanket. Then, slowly, she stood, her movements mechanical, as if she were operating outside her own body. The chair scraped against the floor as she pushed it back, the sound jarring in the oppressive quiet. No one said anything as she turned and walked out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the long, empty corridor.
As she stepped into the elevator, the doors closing behind her, Maeve finally allowed herself to breathe. Her hands were shaking—she could see it now, in the sterile reflection of the elevator doors. But she didn’t cry. She didn’t even blink. She just stared at the woman in the mirror, the one with the too-pale face and the dark circles under her eyes, and wondered where it had all gone wrong.
The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and she stepped out into the lobby. People bustled around her, nurses, doctors, patients—all of them oblivious to the storm raging inside her. Maeve moved through them like a ghost, unnoticed, unseen, until she finally pushed open the glass doors and stepped out into the cold, biting air of the city. She stopped on the sidewalk, her breath fogging in front of her as she looked up at the hospital—the place where she had spent the last years of her life, the place that had just chewed her up and spat her out without a second thought. She could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface, but there was something else too—something colder, darker. A hollow emptiness that gnawed at her insides.
She shoved her hands into her pockets and started walking, her steps quick and determined. She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she couldn’t stop. If she stopped, if she let herself think, the weight of it all might crush her.
So she kept moving, the city blurring around her, her thoughts a chaotic whirl of anger, confusion, and something she couldn’t quite name. All she knew was that she had to keep going, had to find something, anything, that would fill the void inside her.
Because now, she had nothing left to lose.
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Maeve couldn't help but laugh bitterly at the thought that her life couldn't get any worse. For the past few months, she'd been suffering from indigestion and acid reflux. With her hectic schedule, she didn't have time to eat meals at regular intervals. Often, she was too late to eat or too exhausted, so she'd simply skip meals altogether.
One night, the pain struck her with such intensity that it became unbearable. She decided to immediately take herself to the Emergency Room. No, she didn't go to where she used to work. Her pride wouldn't allow those people to see her in such a state. She might have lost her license, but she still had her ego—a whole big chunk of it.
She reread the paper containing her diagnosis and prognosis. Once. Twice. Three times. The details remained unchanged, stark and unforgiving on the crisp white sheet.
She is given twelve months to live.
The cause of her impending death? Glioblastoma.
What a cruel joke.