The Shadow In Him

Humans are forever cursed to have a mind smart enough to realize its mistakes, but not wise enough to stop making them.

A man crouched on the freezing stone floor, caressing an I.D. as disheveled as everything about him. With every stroke of his finger over his old name came a tide of memories that lured him into a nightmarish daydream. Dwelling in his past was the worst form of torture he could inflict on himself, yet at the same time, the only thing that kept him tethered to his sanity. Without it, his humanity would fade, assuming it hadn't already.

His favorite white lab coat, which had now been tainted with red and brown stains, was the only thing that shielded him from the freezing breeze delivered by the passing train. The metallic howling it gave was deafening for sure, but being under the subway most of his time, alone in dark tunnels, he'd gotten used to it.

He kept on staring at the crumpled piece of paper that once meant everything to him. Even up to this day, he'd still cringe whenever his eyes would hover over his photo. Those innocent, carefree eyes with a hint of black underneath from partying the night before made him look more like a patient than a doctor. And that confused smile of his that couldn't even arch right . . . whenever he saw that awkward grin he had, the giggles of his ex-girlfriend would whisper down the lobe of his ears.

It reminded him of every time she pulled heaven and hell together just to teach him to smile, or at the least, find his most photogenic angle. But as obsessed as he was with his career in being a full-fledged surgeon, he never bothered to listen to her lectures, nor appreciate her little efforts. Little did he know that that residency photo would be the closest thing he would ever get to holding the prestigious title.

Shame.

He paced his eyes back to his name, Cedric. Cedric . . . who?

The surname was caught in one of many rips that enveloped the wallet-sized paper. All that was readable was his first name, barely, but it was. But most significant of all, the prefix "doctor" was still there. They might have taken his license away, but the expertise would forever be with him . . . even if nobody would honor it.

After quite some time, a screeching noise approached from a distance. It was another train darting across the tunnel. And every time it passed by, its lights would purge the darkness for a mere second, to be replaced by another darkness brewing inside Cedric's mind. A thought that urged him to end the pain by leaping into the rails of the immense metal bullet. As pleasant as that thought was, he had to dismiss it. Not yet, he would always say. Not yet.

Cedric pocketed his I.D. and went back to headquarters. Quite a fancy term for a place that was so sullen and illegal. To be fair, he was not the one who decided to call it that; he had long grown out of his lively phase to even care.

He followed the mossy path, dimly lit by the orange lights lining the walls. The squeaking of mice clogged the silence, only to be drowned out whenever another train passed by. Despite having little to no contact with the outside winter, the underground air felt cold, especially with his thin-soled shoes that would offer no protection if he ever stepped on a tack.

It was a huge drop from his old lavish life.

After a tiring walk that had his knees screaming, he arrived at headquarters, a machinery room concealed behind a rust-coated metal door. It was hard to distinguish but one of his associates sat on the chair adjacent to the entrance, and if not for the thick smell of cigarettes that alerted Cedric to his presence, he would've waltzed right in without batting an eye. Not that it would matter anyway, Cedric just wanted to give the slightest semblance of work ethic, even if his environment was far from hospitable.

"New patient today?" Cedric hummed before his voice was swamped by the loud train.

The man lifted his empty gaze before tossing his cigarette and pounding it with his boot. "'Ya late," he said, smoke blowing out of his crusty lips.

"I live here for God's sake. You have no business without me, so quit treating me like a fucking intern," Cedric retorted calmly. Frustrated, he unclasped the door's locks by himself and heaved. So much for work ethic.

The flickering light from inside dazzled his eyes that were used to the darkness. Blinking three times to regain his sight, he strolled to the small fridge at the room's corner and snatched himself a pitcher of lukewarm water. Of course, even the drinks in headquarters were crap.

As he took a bite off the almost rotten apple, a voice called out to him, "Doctor!"

Cedric gulped the pitcher to its last droplet before pointing his dreary eyes at Stiller, the youngest among the crew. Wearing a bright red jacket, he looked the most alive compared to everyone, nailing his character sheet down to a T.

Admittedly, he looked like the most stereotypical punk kid in every movie ever. With half of his face covered in ink, and the other half in piercings, one would never imagine that he was the one who pulled Cedric out of the gutter. Albeit, he was also the one who introduced him into the world of underground crime. Although regardless of how you looked at it, Cedric would be ashes if it wasn't for him.

"Patient's all neat and lined-up, the way you like 'em, doc!" Stiller said before pulling out a clipboard and flipping a couple of pages.

The doctor chuckled. It had only been a couple of weeks since their employment, yet Stiller's interest in, quote, "doctor paraphernalia," had been growing fast. At first, Cedric believed Stiller was just trying to cook up some kind of drug in his father's basement. But why stick and help around if that was all he wanted?

Something in the boy set off a calming aura in Cedric. Perhaps it was his cheerful nature and optimistic demeanor, but most likely, it was their odd similarities that triggered a familial sense in the doctor. He could see himself in the young man—the burning interest and the glowing passion. He was sure that Stiller's life would be unrecognizable if he was born in a life far from crime.

But of course, he could also be completely mistaken. There might also be the possibility that the kid was enjoying cutting people open more than he should. But who would know? Diagnosing psychopathy was far from Cedric's alley.

He shrugged the thought as he swiveled to Stiller, his eyes staring down. "Well, good morning to you too."

"Whatcha waiting for?" He scratched his head. "Our patients ain't gonna fix themselves!"

"You mean, my patients?"

"Tch, soulless as ever." Stiller scoffed, handing a pair of scrubs to Cedric. "Here's your damn uniform all cleaned and sorted."

Cedric covered himself in the light blue attire before flicking the faucet at the room's other corner. Everything was in such a small space that one could access anything after a couple of steps. It felt more like a rabbit hole than anything, turning his already hard job even more grueling.

He sighed as he brushed every crevice of his hand and let the water rinse them by sweeping his forearms over the stream. It took a while with the slow pouring of water, but everything was settled after a few of the clock's cycles.

"Close the tap," he said before opening his arms and letting the boy cover him in his surgical gown.

"You've wasted water and time, both things we don't have very much of," Stiller murmured as he tied the doctor's robe from behind.

With both hands hanging in the air, Cedric rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up. Just introduce the patients already."

Stiller signaled the doctor to follow him with a toss of his head. There, a makeshift surgical table waited at the end of the hall. Placed on it were all his tools and apparatuses neatly arranged the way Cedric wanted it.

"Everything sterilized?"

"Knives boiled for ten minutes, just as you liked it." Stiller lied. He just rinsed them a couple of times and called it a day. "Let's get you in touch with patient uno over here."

The boy hopped to the other side, where a big, pale man lay naked on the operating desk. His eyelids were glued together; his stiff jaw hung open. Stiller, however, quickly snapped the man's trap shut, only for it to hang low once again.

"So, big boy here calls himself Sleepy. 30-year-old male, blown to the head, and according to our delivery man, fresh as pie." He waved his hand as if presenting a lavish gift before pulling back the blankets and exposing the man's lower half . . . which, oddly, was missing. "Ain't exactly fresh, but look at the bright side! We got the meatier half with all the organs complete."

Cedric drew his face closer to the body, inspecting the valuables without laying a finger. "Goodness, it'll take a lot of time to salvage the goods. How long do we have?"

His friend glanced at the stacks of body bags on the corner. "About three hours, then multiply that by six. . .uhm." He flexed his digits as he counted, though not finishing after being interrupted by the doctor's outburst.

"Six? You're joking."

"The bosses sent six. I can't do nothing 'bout that!"

"Shit. If they're going to exhaust us to death, we at least deserve the fifty-fifty!"

Hearing his reply caused the young man's eyes to widen. "Man, if you have beef with the boss, keep it to yourself. The big man has ears everywhere."

Cedric wrapped his hand in tight plastic gloves as he drew the size ten scalpel. "Guess we better start early. I have somewhere to be by six."

"Oh? Doc's getting a date?" A grin shaped out of the boy's lips. "If you need some tips, I'm —"

"I'm gonna have none of that, thank you very much. I plan to check back to my old place, try to salvage a few things."

"I thought your landlord kicked you out?"

"I was evicted, yes, but all my stuff is still there. Bitch ain't giving it, so I'll be taking my things by force," Cedric muttered as he pulled his sleeves.

"Breaking and entering ain't exactly my kind of job, but I can join you if you want."

The doctor shook his head. "Hell, no. Take care of your dad. He'll need you by his side, so be there." He poked the knife's edge against the patient's bloated stomach and began the incision, drawing a reverse letter V on the skin. His movements were elegant, like a chef making thin slices of salmon with a gourmet knife. With Stiller holding the artery forceps, Cedric began tearing the tissues little by little as though digging through sand to find gold.

"Yea, yea. He's doing fine . . . all thanks to you."

"Don't worry about that. He still has some meds?"

"I'll take care of that, doc. You've done a lot already." Stiller's voice went down a few scales. He gripped the forceps tighter, aiming to clear his head. "Come on, let's do this now. We have to finish early."

Cedric nodded, not saying a word since then. As he got lost in his work, all he could hear was his inner voice uttering instructions and recalling proper procedures. Despite loathing the silence, it was the best environment that allowed Cedric's concentration to foster.

He'd always wonder how others could cope with the gut-wrenching sounds of the radio churning in the background, much less how they enjoyed listening to its buzzes more than tranquility. It was like tossing a boulder over his speeding train of thought.

As he burrowed down the corpse's digestive tract, gradually pulling its vital organs and keeping them in iced plastic bags, a couple of their colleagues came in, shoes squeaking. They shuffled around the place, rattling the furniture and exchanging whispers, before finally standing behind the doctor. They were statues, yet at the same time, their soft shivering didn't escape Cedric's notice.

"Feel free to munch on some popcorn while you're at it." Cedric glared as sweat trickled down his forehead. His patient was a cadaver, sure, but he still wouldn't let his sweat drip on the body.

The two men swapped glances as time poured down the hourglass. It was as if they didn't hear Cedric's word, or were too preoccupied to care. Both cases were unacceptable for they agreed to help with the operation, and as it stood, only Cedric and Stiller were doing the work.

"Don't mind us," one of them broke the silence, gazing at the door as if waiting for something. "I gotta hand it to you, man. Boss really liked your service. Profit's also bustling." His feet rattled the ground as his back hugged the wall. "It really is a shame that this place got busted."

Before Cedric could even scold him for chit-chatting, the door blasted open. A squad of cops marched inside, their pistols raised, and their numbers quickly filling the room. Cedric found his limbs frozen as loud grunts blasted all over his ears, telling them to put their hands over their heads.

He quickly spread his fingers open, dropping the bloodied scalpel. W-what's happening? He asked himself, despite already knowing the answer. Their operation was only known to the parties involved. It meant only one thing. Their colleagues ratted them out.

Cedric's frozen state was thawed out by the heat of his fury. He looked around, trying to scan the perimeter when he spotted Stiller cowering beside the fire extinguisher.

The young man's knees trembled, fear radiating out of his punk boy facade. He had the face of an alley cat that was shoved into a corner, and despite looking like the type that had already made a home behind bars, he acted far more fearful than the doctor.

It was to be expected. Cedric had already lost everything, to the point that nothing in life could dent him any further. But Stiller . . . he was just a kid, a lost lamb. And as Cedric gazed deeper into his friend's midnight pupils, he began to see the side of him that was concealed over by the dozen snake tattoos.

It was innocence, regret, and confusion brewed into one concoction. But there was something else fused in the mixture, something that Cedric had always seen but ignored—recklessness.

Stiller stared at the doctor intently, hands slowly drifting down. The young man shifted his feet toward the door next to him, an exit that led to a different sector of the tunnel that extended as part of the webbing subway. With the sharp forceps that he was still holding, he jabbed the fire extinguisher, covering the room in thick white smoke.

Cedric hadn't smiled in months, but weirdly enough, his lips arched the moment the officer's faces succumbed to confusion. His life was over; it was already over, way before he even fell to the black market. But for Stiller, it was only the beginning. And if one of them could escape, it should be him.

So with all his might, Cedric stood in front of the gate in hopes of halting the police even for just a second. Stalling for time was all he could do. He braced his legs, their bodies pushing against his. Their rough bluecoats rubbed against his robe, both forces giving all they had.

The train howled and the tracks ground when a gunshot emerged louder than the cacophony rattling the cold air. It came from the outside. From where Stiller was supposed to escape.

No.

With all his strength sapped, Cedric collapsed, trampled by the officers. They placed their guns back at their holsters as they stared at the young boy, lying beside Cedric. It was Stiller, shot at the ribs by another squad waiting at the exit.

Cedric was frozen as they tugged him, both of his hands cuffed behind his back. He couldn't even mouth a prayer, nor cry for a friend. He was motionless, the quiet surrounding him, coiling around his throat.

He was ushered away when the train sped across the tracks. In its metallic coat, the doctor caught a glimpse of his reflection. His bloodied vest and his unshaved chin, all deforming as the light danced in his eyes. And with it, a voice whispered—a voice so dark it brought chills to his body, a voice that was familiar . . . a voice that said one thing:

Destroy.