The Tears Behind The Walls

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A Short Story –

The smell of disinfectant still clung to Dr. Arga’s hands. His gloves had been peeled off, his gown thrown into the bin, yet the faint metallic tang of blood refused to leave his skin. He pushed through the back door of the hospital, where the night air was cool and heavy with the scent of damp earth.

He leaned against the wall, his chest rising and falling, and finally let go.
Tears streaked down his cheeks, hot against the chill of midnight.

A voice broke the silence.
“Arga?”

He stiffened, wiping his eyes quickly. His best friend, Raka, another surgeon, stood a few feet away. The glow of a cigarette ember lit his face for a second before he crushed it under his shoe.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Raka said softly. “You disappeared right after the surgery.”

Arga’s voice cracked. “I failed him, Rak. He… he trusted me. His family trusted me. And now he’s gone.”

The night hummed with the distant whir of ambulance sirens. Arga’s hands trembled as he stared at his palms.
“I swear, they’re still warm. His pulse was there. I held it. And then—nothing. Just silence. Do you know what silence sounds like in an operating room? It’s deafening.”

Raka walked closer, the scent of hospital coffee still lingering on his clothes. “You think you failed, but you didn’t. You fought for him until the very last second.”

Arga shook his head violently. “That’s not enough! I’m a surgeon, Rak. My job is to save. If I can’t do that, what am I?”

Raka paused, letting the weight of the words hang in the night air. Then, firmly: “You’re human.”

Arga’s laugh was bitter. “Human doesn’t save lives. Skill does. Precision does. But tonight, I was neither.”

Raka’s eyes softened. “You’re wrong. Skill is sharpened by failure, not perfection. Every scar you carry makes your hands steadier for the next patient. Don’t hide your pain, Arga—use it.”

Arga slid down against the wall, the rough concrete scraping his back. He pressed his palms into his face, inhaling the faint scent of antiseptic still lingering. “How do you do it, Rak? How do you keep walking into that room after losing someone?”

Raka crouched beside him, his tone low but firm. “By remembering the ones we did save. By carrying the faces of those still alive because of these hands. And by promising the ones we lost that their death will never be wasted.”

The cool wind rustled the leaves overhead. Arga lifted his gaze, eyes red, vision blurry. “You really think I can keep going?”

Raka placed a hand on his shoulder, the grip steady, grounding. “I don’t think. I know. Because the pain you’re feeling now? That’s proof you’re not numb. And the best surgeons are the ones who never stop feeling.”

For the first time that night, Arga exhaled deeply. The sharp ache in his chest remained, but it had shifted—no longer only grief, but something harder, sharper. Resolve.

He stood slowly, brushing the dust from his scrubs. The hospital lights glowed behind them, cold and white.
“Alright,” Arga said hoarsely. “The next patient… I won’t let them down.”

Raka’s lips curved into a small smile. “That’s the Arga I know. Come on. Let’s get some coffee. You’ll need steady hands in the morning.”

And as they walked back through the door, the scent of rain-soaked earth faded into the sterile air of the hospital—pain tucked away, but not forgotten.

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