Reunion.

The doors to the Huey P. Long surgery theatre swung open with a sterile creak, letting in a gust of warm, moist air from the corridor outside. Out there, it was a hot & muggy night – the kind that makes you feel like you’ve walked into some small cheap motel bathroom after someone has taken a long, nearly-scalding shower. But here, where everything was refrigerated and sterile, the air was as cool and crisp as a mouthful of nickels. 

Dr. Terrica Toussaint didn’t look up immediately. She was standing at the scrub sink, washing her hands with a practised rhythm, the scent of antiseptic soap hanging in the air like something permanent – an odour that imprints itself on the interior of one’s sinuses. It was nearing midnight, and after twelve gruelling hours, all she wanted was to finish this procedure, drive home, and collapse into bed. She might pick up takeout on the way, or, equally possible, she'd just crawl under the covers and sleep. There was a book she was halfway through – a historical fiction novel set in 18th-century Paris – that she had been meaning to get back to. 

Another appendectomy. Routine. She could practically do it in her sleep.

She dried her hands, feeling the rough texture of the paper towel – cheap bastards – and turned to glance at the patient being wheeled in. He looked rough – unkempt, sunken eyes, and greying hair matted down at the edges with a sheen of sweat. He groaned, clutching his abdomen in pain, and the heart monitor pulsed faster, reflecting the depths of his distress. The nurses were already prepping him, speaking in soothing tones in an attempt to calm his nerves.

Terrica adjusted her mask and stepped closer. "How we doing?" she asked in her usual calm, detached tone – perfected over years of practice. This was the sound of an experienced surgeon ready for an easy procedure.

The man blinked at her, his eyes lightly out of focus due to extreme pain. "It... it hurts," he groaned, his voice gravelly, as if each word were a burden. "How long...?"

"Not long now," she said, trying to project confidence. "We'll take care of you, alright?" She scanned his chart briefly. An inflamed appendix, detected just in time before it ruptured. She saw the name of the Nursing Home, Pineview Pastures. Yuck – what a hell hole. Given what she knew of the place, she was surprised anyone on the nursing staff there had been mentally present enough on the night shift to recognise the symptoms and get him over here – especially given that he was uninsured. He had really caught a lucky break. "What’s your name, sir?"

"Jason," he mumbled, eyes squeezing shut as another wave of pain washed over him.

"Jason, okay," she said, making a mental note. "Well, Jason, I’m Dr. Toussaint. I’ll be the one performing your surgery tonight." She reached for his wrist to check his pulse, feeling the clammy skin beneath her fingers. "We’ll have you in and out of here before the ink is dry on your admission papers."

He groaned again, squirming slightly as the anesthesiologist prepped the sedative. "I can’t... it hurts."

"I know," she said, almost on autopilot now. "Once you're under, you won’t feel a thing." She turned away from him for a moment, her mind drifting to things more mundane – what she might order from that Thai place downtown… hadn’t she gotten the pad thai last time? Maybe some green curry tonight… though she couldn’t handle heavy spice on a short night before another long day…, whether her cat, Rex, would greet her at the door or ignore her until she turned some tuna into his bowl, as he often did. Maybe she’d call in sick tomorrow and spend the day reading in bed. It was tempting.

But as she turned back to Jason, something tugged at her memory. Her eyes caught on his face – a craggy, worn face, lined with years of hard living. Nothing notable or surprising there – she didn’t expect anyone at Pineview had an easy life to wind up in that spiderhole. His eyes, icey blue and probably show-stoppers in his youth, had begun to cloud and yellow, probably from years of heavy drinking. But then she saw it. That scar. A deep purple streak from the corner of his left eye, jagged like lightning, cutting across his cheekbone almost to his ear. Her breath hitched, and the sterile theatre suddenly felt too small, too close.

"Have we met before?" Jason’s voice, shaky from the pain, broke the silence. His eyes were still half-lidded, glazed over from the pre-op sedative, but there was a glint of something in them, something searching.

Her heart began to pound in her chest, a steady thump that drowned out the hum and squabble of the machines. She stared at him, her throat tightening. That scar... It couldn’t be. But it was. It had to be.

Suddenly, she was no longer standing in the bright lights of the surgical theatre. She was back in the rain. 

The sky was a sweeping canvas of darkness, split occasionally by flashes of lightning. She was just an intern back then, returning from an emergency trip out to the oil rigs for a chemical incident. Her scrubs were rimmed with salt from the spray of the ocean, her body exhausted from hours of dealing with men who barely looked at her – and when they did it made her shudder with disgust, but at least they had kept their hands to themselves. Trudging up the darkened pier, she was looking forward to nothing more than a hot shower and some sleep, the long walk to her apartment through the deserted dockyards a routine she had grown used to – even if it was only required intermittently. 

But then she heard it—the soft skittering sound of footsteps behind her. With an electric feeling of tension in every muscle, she quickened her pace, pulling her bag closer to her body. Her heart raced as the spider scurries of the footsteps grew louder, closer. Then, suddenly, a hand grabbed her, spinning her around and slamming her against the cold, wet wall of a warehouse. The sandpaper edges of the bricks scraped her cheek as she tried to scream, but a hand – cold and clammy like the scales of a fish – clamped over her mouth. She felt his hot, rancid breath flowing into her ear as he pressed his body against hers.

"Don’t worry, baby," he whispered, his voice betraying some sick parody of comfort. "Daddy’s here for you."

Terrica struggled – kicking, writhing, trying to shove him off – but he was stronger, his grip like iron. She felt him lick her ear, and the fiery taste of bile rose in her throat. His hand was groping blindly, searching for the ties that held her scrubs fast to her midriff, and panic surged through her. She reached into her bag blindly, her fingers grazing something sharp. The box cutter – packed away on a sunnier day for moments just like this. She didn’t hesitate. She slashed anywhere she could reach, finally feeling the blade connect with – and run through – flesh. He screamed, a horrible, animal sound, and stumbled back, fingers clutching at the side of his face as blood gushed between them and splattered in a waterfall across the pavement. She ran, her legs carrying her as fast as they could, not stopping until she reached her apartment, shaking uncontrollably, her clothes soaked through with rain, her attacker’s blood, and terror.

Ever since that night, she’d been haunted by his voice, the feeling of his saliva on her earlobe, and the words he had whispered. They echoed through the corridors of her dreams nightly – and followed her down every dark alley she’d ever passed in the years intervening since.

But now here she was looking at… That scar. The scar she had given him so many years before.

"Dr. Toussaint?" one of the nurses asked, breaking her from her reverie. She blinked, her vision clearing, eyes coming back into focus, and realised she had been standing still for too long, just staring at him with her mouth partially ajar. The room felt too quiet, too bright. Her mind raced, struggling to process what was happening. Could it really be him? After all these years?

"Let’s proceed," she said, her voice surprisingly steady.

Jason was watching her, his eyes fluttering as the sedative began to take hold. His body relaxed slightly, but his gaze never left hers – it merely wriggled slightly from side to side, as if he were accessing some deep pages of his mental archives, or as if some part of him recognised her, even if he couldn’t place her.

The anesthesiologist moved forward, fixing the mask over his nose and mouth. His breathing slowed, the drugs began working their way through his system.

In one swift, smooth, fluid motion, Terrica was upon him, her face just inches from his. "Don’t worry, baby," she whispered, her voice low and filled with an icy calm. "Mommy’s here for you."

Jason’s eyes suddenly widened in recognition, a flicker of panic crossing his face.  His hands twitched, feebly trying to push the mask away, but he was too weak, too far gone. His eyes, wide and confused, stared up at Terrica, fear flickering behind the haze. Having failed to even slightly shift the mask, his hands gripped the edge of the gurney, but it was useless. The drugs pulled him under, and his body went limp. His pupils dilated, and his breathing steadied, the rise and fall of his chest the only movement left.

Terrica stood there for a moment, staring down at him, her heart racing. The power she held over him in that moment was intoxicating. The man who had haunted her nightmares for years was now utterly helpless, lying before her, completely at her mercy. At that moment, he was as small as a baby bird cupped lightly in the palm of her hand.

She stepped back, adjusting her gloves, forcing herself to breathe, to focus. This was just another surgery. Just another patient. She would do her job. She would not bring herself down to the muck and the mire where she had last met this wretch of a man.

But… as the scalpel glinted under the surgical lights, a small, dark part of her revelled in the irony of it all.

Tonight, the power was hers. And in that moment – she was still unsure of just how she would use it.