Chapter 22
MYRA
Myra pressed a light hand upon the patient's head, just as she had for the past week. Tears rimmed her eyes as she grabbed onto the threads of pain and agony coming from him. Tugging them taut, she reached deep into the pit of her stomach and pulled.
She poured every ounce of tranquility down the thread--as much of it as she could, as much as she had to offer him before the guilt and nausea rose in her stomach. Before the hate and doubt settled in her bones.
The invisible black and red threads turned golden, transforming in seconds.
The deep wrinkles that previously creased the man's forehead softened, and the screams ceased. The tension in his jaw lessened as the new emotions took over. And for a moment, the man could pretend like he was anywhere else.
Myra could at least grant him a moment of bliss. As short as it might have been.
Dr. Thorne stepped forward, flicking the syringe with his fingers.
The bitter taste of ash coated Myra's mouth. Guilt and trepidation flooded her system. Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she held them back. She didn't deserve to cry. She didn't deserve to feel anything.
Yet, while Myra might have been able to alter everyone else's emotions, she had never been able to change her own.
And despite how much she wished to close her eyes, despite how much she wanted to look away, Myra kept her eyes on the needle as Dr. Thorne poked a vein protruding from the man's neck and deposited the murky liquid into his bloodstream.