A writer by the name of Walter Map once said, “The hand of a surgeon is hard, but healing.” I can assure you that's not true. 

It was the first time I killed someone. Blood on my hands, a monitor screaming, and a pale patient lying in front of me. The shakes of my breath move to my hands and the tips of my fingers. My sharp severing tool made a rattling noise on the floor, but I didn't even acknowledge it. My stomach felt as if I were gutted like a deer—or more similarly to the patient in front of me.

The pain and disaster I feel only make me question how she felt. Did she see the white light turn black? Did she feel the pain that consumed me? I wondered how her family would feel. And it's all my fault. I took away a mother, a wife, and a grandmother.

I look to my right and see everyone's eyes piercing into every inch of my body as I turn the monitor off and state, "Time of death 19:53." Silence overcame the room after that moment. Until the sound of removing my gloves broke it. Everyone shuffling around the room felt like whispers in my ears.

I felt paralyzed while cleaning up. Everyone asked me if I was okay as I slowly made my way down to the locker room. It felt as if my life suddenly appeared under a magnifying glass. I just wanted to be alone. I heard a whale following my uncontrollable gasps. It's me.