"Memories are more than events of the past. They're the perfume of the future."

Blood dripped from the scalpel onto the freshly polished white floor. Its echo accompanied the steady beep of the monitor. Seconds froze as I glanced around the room watching focused eyes twinkle behind goggles. My hands froze. I raised them to check if energy pulsed through them. The pungent scent of blood dispersed through the air yielding green light. Monitors spoke of the fate of people outside the door. The soft-white gloves abandoned tears of blood. The dark stain on them reminded me of the ominous feeling of the past. It wasn't the first, nor the last time they would change to red.

The operation room was dark, except for the focused surgical lights. The staff stood silent, listening in terror to the beep of the monitor.

This wasn't a moment of comforting, but rather a determining moment. I announced the time of death, and the only consolation I gave was the tone full of empathy.

What is Guilt? Some define it as an act of committing a crime, and the conscience constantly opposing your act while it can. However, when it can't, the conscience leaves a bitter feeling that can never be destroyed.

However, in my case no crime was committed. But that bitter feeling was still there. This was the guilt of promise speaking- the promise I told the dead patients's relatives. That is, everything will be fine.

Gulping down the guilt, I embraced the last bit of faith and proceeded. My courage weakened as the door magnified slowly like a squeezed sponge. When my lips pronounced the truth, the family went into an eternal loop of sadness, not ready to accept any of the words.

"I couldn't save him. I apologize."

There were many relatives standing and each expressed his disbelief in ways they thought would absorb some of the sorrow. The father cried, the mother collapsed and the grandparents sat down on the nearest set of seats drenched in tears. Distant relatives dropped a tear or two and began their prayers. Those with the strongest faith cried but felt selfish, because they knew that he'd be in a far better place.

My feet walked past the family, with nothing left to do. I became a general surgeon despite knowing that death at times is inevitable and so is the guilt of promise. I've been warned about the restless hours of work and that this career accepts no lies, and at some point- some people told me stories about Doctors who committed suicide. But I always had one response.

"You won't be saying that when you need me."

However, no one told me or -could describe- the feeling of seeing the patients improve and smile after years of suffering. It was as if seeing wilted flowers growing again after a storm. This reward, and this smile was the compensation I waited for.

Sunk deep in thoughts, I drove through the wet streets of Georgia. After parking my car I quickly ran towards my home, trying to escape the heavy rain.

As I entered, I could feel the darkness of the house sinking through my deepest scars. I always wondered. How could my parents have lived in such a cold place, which lacked the scent of innocent days? Their letter- sent a few days ago- was still lying on the wooden table, untouched. My parents left me with my Aunt at the age of eight. And, twenty-three years later, they decided to bring the flames of the past- one which they or anyone could never blow out.

The flames of the past, which I ignored the bright light of.

Dear Aryn,

Please forgive us, but we have to leave. And by that, we don't mean seeing each other once other every year. No. We mean considering us dead. The only bond we may ever share is through the necklace and pictures we left you. You may understand as time passes why we did this. However, you will never understand how painful it was for us. Remember that all memories are like water droplets; they drip from the window to the streets and from your heart to your blood.

With love, Your Parents

I kept the letter safe in my drawer. The facts the letter had were nothing new, considering that I spent my life believing that they were dead. However, there was always this weight crushing my chest. The burning feeling of curiosity of knowing my parents and where they lived. This letter ignited the faint flames, and I became even more desperate to know and blame them for everything they'd done.

This letter had their handwriting, which I never saw. With their words engraved in my mind, I lied on my bed, still trying to find reasons or logical explanations for their sentences.

~

The sun approached. I slackly tied my hair into a ponytail and wore my white coat. After getting ready, I again drove my red car through the dirty streets. Ellena, my best friend and long-life neighbor, waved through her window, where she waited every morning for my car to pass by her house. After ten minutes, I reached the hospital and confidently walked through the entrance.

Regardless of how many years passed, the sight of the corridor upon entering never changed. There were the arched backs of doctors, as they scanned through records and the whipping magazine papers as patients waited.

I walked towards Doctor Maria's office-my assistant- craving to hear the words I wanted. Upon hearing "enter" from her, the silent swooshing of the AC accompanied the faint scent of her perfume. Her short-curly caramel hair covered a section of her brown eyes and pink lips. As usual, she was occupied in endless stacks of papers, with five clocks behind her.

"Did you prepare the blood tests I asked for?" I asked with a tensed tone.

"Yes," she replied worriedly.

"But Doctor Aryn, there is something I couldn't understand in his results. His blood levels are fine, but there is this weird component I couldn't identify. It isn't toxic, as his other tests and vitals are fine. It shouldn't be a source of concern, but it's present in huge quantities in his blood."

"You're right," I answered as I looked through the results.

There was something familiar with the results. This wasn't the first time I saw them.

Patient 301, Louis Craven, was admitted to the hospital three days ago because of a car accident. His blue shirt was crippled and dyed in scarlet red. He whispered some words before losing consciousness, with his closed eyes twitching like chattering teeth. "Don't take me to the hospital," I managed to hear against the rolling wheels. There was a straight scar across his cheek, at the bottom of his pointed jaw, from which blood dripped. The movement of his chest continued to fade. A bold scent of mint came from his mouth, that of a gum.

Instantly, I ordered to prepare the operating room.

The glass shards were embedded in several regions in his body, but nothing affected the vital organs. He didn't break any bones except a rib. There weren't any complications during the surgery, and as a regular procedure, I ordered some blood tests to ensure that everything was fine. Although everything was, according to the results Maria presented, I couldn't stop thinking about that component.

The day went on as usual in the office. Patients complained of pain while I listened carefully to their state. As a doctor, this career meant much more than treating patients. It meant listening to them with open ears and being a friend they would trust. When they spoke, they didn't only tell me about their struggles. They were referring to me. It was like how the tides depend on the moon for their living, and how it silently obeys it.

When my shift finally ended, I collected the necessary documents and locked my office room. Just a few steps from the entrance, I saw panicking doctors admitting a patient to the operating room. My eyes widened as I recognized his bushy eyebrows and thick lips. He was my Uncle, William, losing his final battle against age.