The Forbidden Chapters: Behind Heaven's Veil

Betsy Martin

Victim Three

Tuesday, January 13, 2043

10:59 A.M.

Skin, loose and wrinkled from weight lost too fast, folds under my grip. Sickness and chemicals fill the air. It should make me queasy, but the Spirit keeps me strong. Torturous moans tremble through the forbidding ambience. Death is welcome here.

Not today. Not for him.

Leaning over the gurney, I pray in whispers—his faint squeeze assuring me that he hears the words subconsciously—before kissing his forehead, sticky with pungent oil. Like I do with every opportunity, I leave while he’s still unconscious. It helps keep the miracle anonymous, though he could find me on surveillance. As I near the exit, beeps and flickers of machines behind me tell me he’s healed: His breathing is improving. His heart rate is increasing. His oxygen levels are restored.

Science is brilliant for treating ill people, but my favorite part of internship is watching the Lord supernaturally fix people. He saves individuals from death. He mends broken hearts. He repairs fractures, sprains, and seeping wounds.

Dull aches run through my calves as I traipse through the door, knives stabbing my soles—a surreal hallucination from standing too long. In order to be a physician, you first have to run yourself into the ground until you’re the patient. I am convinced that med student syndrome—the odd condition that makes us think we have every disease we research—is common because sleep deprivation assassinates our inner judgement. Couple this with no time for a social life, and it’s astonishing anyone survives. Sometimes I debate dabbling in psychiatry, but that would add more time to this delirium, and I’m already too old. But what else would I do? Bake cakes? Work in computer repair? I’ll pass. I was first in my family to graduate college; if I push myself through a few more years, I’ll be Doctor Betsy Martin.

The halls are so white every spot would be glaringly obvious—if there were any. Clean air shoots out of the overhead ventilation, carrying