He was lying in a pool of broken glass and preserved organs, his crying punctuated by occasional coughing fits. But I waited until he'd passed out from the stress and the fumes to go inside, knowing it was the only way I'd be allowed to care for him.
The stench of spilt formaldehyde stung my nose as I moved the unconscious young doctor to another part of the floor. The chemical had soaked his clothes, so I quickly removed them before any more of the toxic substance could seep into his skin, then filled the wash basin he kept with hot water and set it beside him. Carefully I dipped a cloth into it, running it over his pale skin until the last traces of formaldehyde were gone. My hands shook a little.
From his cabinet I took a small bottle of alcohol and some gauze. His hands were bloodied from the jars he'd shattered, and after removing the stray slivers of glass still embedded in his flesh, I dabbed some of the alcohol over his wounds. He cringed slightly, though he didn't wake.
I bandaged his hands as gently as I could manage, smoothing his hair. Damp tendrils clung to my fingertips, which I took as a reminder, rinsing the remaining formaldehyde from the silvery strands. The sound he made as I lifted him from the floor to the bed was soft and almost grateful, the only thanks I'd receive for my actions. After draping a blanket over him and savouring the drawn-out moment in which I tenderly tucked his hair behind his ear, I took my leave.
The young doctor would wake with no knowledge that I'd helped him, and though he might in his delusion attribute the help he'd received to his heartless father, perhaps it was for the better if he never discovered to what lengths I was willing to go to protect him, or the way my chest ached when I looked at him.