Scrubs of Blood

Prologue

The chaos of the war in Afghanistan is worsened by the flying bullets and bombs at a distance. Troops are withdrawing from the war front because of the prolonged attacks from the counter-troops. It does not help that there are volunteers who need to be saved, which means that even if the troops stayed, they would need to withdraw all the volunteers.

War victims are increasing exponentially. Men in military uniforms litter the ground, some who are dead, and some who struggle to make up for strength with their incomplete body parts — missing legs here and missing arms there.

Doctors are overwhelmed from giving treatments to the wounded soldiers, and so even junior doctors and interns are recruited into the war front to help. But the attacks are getting worse.

“We all need to leave here right now,” shouts the commander, “All non-military volunteers, withdraw yourselves. Now!”

Sounds of detonating bombs are heard from the distance; mushroom smokes sipping into the air like fireworks. The pandemonium caused by people running away from the war front raises dust, covering the sky with fog indistinguishable from the mushroom cloud.

“Young lady. Why are you still here? I said everybody should withdraw. Now!”

“But there is a man over there who is still alive,” the young lady replies, her face covered with brown dust, “I need to save him. He is still alive.”

“What are you?” the commander asks.

“I’m a doctor.”

“He’s not going to make it. You should leave now. We don’t stand a chance.”

The young lady does not bulge. “I’m not leaving without him. You go. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not responsible for what happens to you.”

The commander goes back to shouting orders to the rest of the volunteers, making directive gestures with his hands.

The young lady approaches the man lying on the floor. The gunshot sounds are getting closer, and she knows she has to be quick, but it doesn’t seem like she would make it in time to get out here without being hurt. But she wouldn’t be hurt if the attackers were hurt first.

She hears the swishing sound of a flying grenade. She doesn’t have enough time to drag the wounded man out of the way. She covers him with her body so that the grenade hits her back, the detonation shaking the ground and causing vibrations.

She lies there, lifeless and unable to move. For two minutes. Her hands twitch, and then her legs. The ruckus is now quietened. The dusty cloud has settled. The attackers stand there, not moving, just watching. And then she stands up from the dusty soil, her body covered with brown soil. Her clothes are ripped apart so that she is clad by just her bra and remnants of her torn clothes covering vital parts of her body. The gashing wound made by the detonated grenade starts to close as though it’s skipping all the physiological steps of healing.

The blonde hair on the young lady’s hair begins to dissipate into fine hair covering her skin. Her fingernails develop sharp, claw-like edges. Her dusty face grows into a snout, and her large, blue eyes become an almond shape. The attackers can hear the crushing transformation of her bones as though they were shifting form and physique.

They squint to confirm what they see, but their reflexes are not quick enough to respond as she pounces on them, tearing their fleshes with her clawed fingers, ripping them apart on their chest and biting off their carotid artery — she is a doctor, so she knows how to inflict a slow, painful death.

All the men lie there, lifeless, their weapons strewn on the ground. The dust they provoked by their grenades now settles on them, and quietude descends on the horizon again.

The young lady emerges from the ruckus unharmed, except for the blood that stains her nails and lips. She is back to being blonde and beautiful, only this time nude and bloody.

She had come here to save lives, but she had to take one to save one, which, she regrets, is the most painful part of her existence.