White: Memories Revisited
White was all he could see, his form curled in a prostrate position on his cold sterile bench. The lights that blared in his cell were made all the more intense by the bleached walls that surrounded him, choking him.
There was nowhere to hide.
He furrowed his brow, huddling deeper into himself as protection from the constant chill that saturated him. A vapor of mist poured from his mouth as he produced an exhalation. The incarcerated surgeon still wasn't used to the frigid temperature he was constantly kept at, like some kind of tissue sample the FBI wished to preserve.
The prisoner's hands and fingers began to twitch, making swift circular motions as though in imitation of suturing. It seemed the sharp staccato movements had long ago been assimilated into his typical pattern of behavior. Delicate procedures were now being performed on a regular basis by these hands, but he was still a dog; being led obediently by a leash to perform his duty and herded back into his realm of white when the criteria for the surgery were fulfilled.
Inmate CR-SO1 could slowly feel his soul fill to the brim with a strange sensation. A forlorn feeling that slowly crept into his very being, strangling him with the twisted tendrils that only extended lack of interpersonal contact could provide.
His patients and his warden Ian Holden were the only company he had, neither of which were around him for very long before he went back under lock and key. He recently performed a PCNL on a middle-aged man living in the suburbs of Baltimore, having to crush and then extract major calcifications in his left kidney. He and his family had hoped the stones would pass on their own, but that was simply was not the case and more proactive measures had to be taken. CR-SO1 was not even given the opportunity to check on the recovery status of his patient before being brought back into his ice box.
That was his latest instance of human interaction, and that was three weeks ago.
Suddenly, a knock on his cell door.
"Hey you." Holden's gruff voice soaked through the walls. "It looks like someone sent you a letter. Scans show there's no funny stuff going on, so you're clear to have it."
The inmate's eyes widened in surprise; he wasn't expecting such a thing. He sat in silent introspection for a short while.
"So, you want it or not?" Holden queried, slightly irritated.
"Just slip it under the door."
Gnarled fingers slid a brown envelope through the door's bottom opening. The prisoner could hear Holden's footsteps slowly fading with each passing press as the FBI representative left to attend other matters.
CR-SO1 turned to face the new stimulus that entered his world; cold misted eyes staring, deliberating. He finally rose to approach it, slim fingers grasping the envelope and undoing the clasp that kept its contents inside. The interior housed several papers, each scribbled and scratched with writing. His eyes perused the first of this series.
Hey! Long time no see! I hope things are going well. You know how it is over here, always a madhouse! Haha! But we still love it though, wouldn't change it for the whole damn world. The guys and I got together and decided that we would each write you a little something! It was my idea of course. We wish you the best!
-Maria Torres
So many exclamation points; he could still hear her shouting ringing in his ears. His fingers flipped to the next page.
Hey, how's it going? Wow, it's been so long since I've hand-written a letter. Thoughtful gestures like actually taking the time to write to someone with a pen are rare to come by these days. I don't know how much time you get out of your cell, but it's Spring and all the trees and flowers are in bloom; it's very beautiful. It reminds you that the very earth we live on is as alive as we are, and that everything has a special purpose, even you. Please don't forget that.
- Dr. Hank Freebird
Images of the gentle giant flashed through the inmate's head. Freebird was always so passionate about life.
YO! It's been a while. How's the food in that place? Can't imagine it tastes any good. I'm sure everyone already wished you well and all that, so forgive me if I keep my letter short. As I was writing this, I remembered watching you do your stuff. You're really something kid, you know that? It reminds me of my glory days before my hand got all screwed up. But that's a story for another time. Take care of yourself.
-Gabriel Cunningham
The prisoner shook his head. Cunningham had a pompous attitude, but he was an undisputedly brilliant man.
Hello. I'm sure you don't remember me, but I have all the reason in the world to remember you; you who kept my light from going out. I never did thank you for saving me, and your work affects more people than you realize. I just thought you should know that.
- Naomi Kimishima
Naomi Kimishima, the "Corpse Whisperer". He's sure he remembered conversation regarding this strange woman in the past.
Good afternoon. I hope this letter finds you well. The work here has slowed down a bit since you left, but the Path of Honor requires that we be diligent, and not falter in our quest to save lives. It takes one moment of indiscretion to jeopardize everything, but we are all determined not to see that happen. I want to thank you for the help you gave us during your time here. You really did your duty with the kind of resolve I wish to emulate.
-Dr. Tomoe Tachibana
Tachibana was always so formal and graceful, even her handwriting was beautifully penned, as though it were an art.
The imprisoned surgeon stood perplexed, the plethora of papers clutched in his hand. He flipped over the front of the envelope, revealing FROM ALL OF US AT RESURGAM scrawled in thick black marker. The expression on his face never deviated from its usual stoic stare as he retreated back to his bench. He slowly sat, flipping through the notes once again. He repeated this ritual the next day, and the day after that, ever onward. These letters were now his only defense against a blank white world.