The Demon inside her

The steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep... of the heart monitor cut through the sterile hum of Operating Room 4. Arthur Vance lay exposed on the table, his chest cavity held open by steel retractors, his life hanging literally by a thread.

Dr. Harris leaned over the open wound, his fingers moving with practiced, micro-millimeter precision. Across from him stood Angela, her hands steady on the retractor handles, her face hidden behind a blue paper surgical mask.

At the head of the bed, Malphas leaned casually against the anesthesia machine. He spun a dial back and forth like a bored safecracker.

“You know, if you just slip your wrist an inch to the left, you’ll nick the aorta,” Malphas whispered loudly, his eyes gleaming over his mask. “It looks like an accident. Clean. Efficient. Very human.”

“Shut up, Malphas,” Angela hissed back, keeping her voice low. “I am not a murderer.”

Dr. Harris did not look up from the chest cavity. “Excuse me? Nurse Angela, did you say something?”

“No, Doctor,” Angela said quickly, her pulse spiking. “Just reminding myself to keep the tension steady.”

Malphas let out a low chuckle. “Oh, please. You’re sabotaging the bypass machine right now, aren’t you? You didn’t properly flush the line. I saw you drop the sterile clamp on the floor earlier. You’re playing the long game, trying to let infection do the dirty work. That is so passive-aggressive. It’s practically a sin in itself.”

“I am trying to delay,” Angela whispered, her eyes burning with desperate intensity. “If the tissue becomes non-viable, Dr. Harris will have to abort the procedure. Vance will pass away naturally from his illness. That is divine intervention, not murder.”

“Honey, you clogged the suction tube with a piece of gauze,” Malphas said, tapping his fingers on the monitor casing. “That’s not a miracle, that’s gross negligence. Heaven’s legal department is going to have a field day with your contract.”

“Suction! I can’t see the field,” Dr. Harris interrupted, his tools clicking heavily. “Angela, give me suction.”

Angela quickly pumped the foot pedal, but the line remained dead. She forced a look of surprise. “Oh dear. It seems to be jammed, Doctor. Must be a mechanical failure.”

Dr. Harris sighed deeply. “A mechanical failure? We just had this unit serviced on Tuesday. Malphas, check the auxiliary lines. Why are you guys whispering back there anyway? Focus up.”

“Right away, Doc,” Malphas said smoothly. “Just debating the ethics of corporate bonuses.” He dropped his voice back to a growl, leaning closer to Angela. “You’re pathetic. Look at him. Arthur Vance. The man literally threw a gala celebrating the launch of a product he knew would destroy the lungs of ten thousand families. If he wakes up tomorrow, he signs the merger that distributes it worldwide. And you’re worried about a little gauze?”

“The law is absolute,” Angela whispered, her knuckles turning white on the retractors. “‘Thou shalt not kill.’ If I cross that line, I am no better than you. I tarnish my grace. I lose my home.”

“Newsflash, church mouse: you’re already sitting in the mud with me,” Malphas said with a grin. “The second you wished for his heart to stop, you broke the commandment in your spirit. You’re slipping. I can smell the sulfur on your scrubs from here.”

“THAT IS IT,” Dr. Harris slammed a metal tray down, his patience entirely gone. “I don’t care what your relationship issues are outside of this hospital, but inside Suite 4, we do not bicker over patients. Malphas, his BP is spiking. Do something. Angela, fix that line or get me a backup nurse who can!”

“Doctor, look at the monitor,” Angela said, her voice shaking as she gestured toward the screen. “His rhythm... it’s erratic. We should stall. We should wait for a cardiologist.”

“Oh, his rhythm is fine, Angela,” Malphas said, flashing a dark smile beneath his mask. “In fact, I’m pumping him full of just enough epinephrine to keep his heart beating like a stallion. I’m going to save him. The demon is going to save the evil corporate overlord, and the angel is going to let him die. The irony is delicious.”

“You monster,” Angela said. “If he lives, thousands die.”

“Then do something about it,” Malphas said, his voice dropping to a harsh, cold command. “Take the scalpel. Cut the line. Be a hero and fall from grace, or stay pure and let a monster walk out of here. Choose.”

“Angela, hand me the 4-0 Prolene suture right now,” Dr. Harris demanded, his hand remaining outstretched over the open chest cavity. “He’s oozing.”

Angela looked down at the tray. Her fingers hovered over the blue packets. To the left was the 4-0 Prolene—the correct, strong suture that would secure Arthur Vance’s corporate heart. To the right was the 2-0 silk. It was thick, heavy, and entirely wrong for a delicate arterial wall. Under the pressure of a restarting heart, it would rip the tissue like wet tissue paper.

Malphas leaned over the anesthesia screen, his playful mockery entirely gone. “Don’t do it, Angela. Stay a good girl. Go back to your clouds. Let the world burn.”

Angela looked at Arthur Vance’s face. Beneath the sterile drapes, he looked like any ordinary, fragile human. But she remembered the balance sheets. She remembered the stacks of medical files from the families who couldn’t breathe.

If I fall, I fall alone, she thought. But they get to live.

With a perfectly steady hand, Angela reached to the right. She picked up the 2-0 silk and slapped it firmly into Dr. Harris’s waiting palm.

“4-0 Prolene, Doctor,” Angela said.

“Thank you,” Dr. Harris said.

Harris immediately went to work, looping the heavy thread through the fragile tissue of the ascending aorta. He moved too fast, relying entirely on the trust of his team to notice the wrong thickness.

Malphas let out a low, breathy laugh behind his mask.

Beneath Angela’s surgical clogs, the sterile linoleum began to warp. A tiny, microscopic bead of black fluid seeped out from the seam of her shoe, sizzling faintly against the wax finish of the floor.

“Alright, we’re tied off,” Dr. Harris said, stepping back slightly. “Malphas, unclamp. Let’s re-perfuse the heart. Bring him back up slowly.”

“Re-perfusing now, Doc,” Malphas said, his voice flat and deadpan. “Here comes the rush.”

Malphas turned the valve. The machine hummed, forcing warm, oxygenated blood back into Arthur Vance’s circulatory system. The deflated heart swelled, filling with pressure.

For three seconds, the monitor beeped a steady, rhythmic bounce.

Then, a sharp pop echoed through the room.

A bright, violent spray of crimson painted the front of Dr. Harris’s plastic face shield. The heavy silk thread had sheared straight through the wall of the aorta under the pressure of the pump.

“Shit! The wall blew!” Dr. Harris shouted. “It tore right through! Angela, suction! Give me more clamps, now!”

The heart monitor shifted from a steady beep to a frantic, high-pitched wail. Blood pooled instantly in the chest cavity, overflowing onto the sterile drapes.

Angela did not move. She did not hand him a clamp. She stood perfectly still, her hands at her sides, watching the red puddle spread.

“Angela! What are you doing?!” Dr. Harris screamed. “Suction!”

“Pressure is bottoming out,” Malphas said, his eyes fixed on his monitors. “Sixty over forty. Forty over twenty. He’s empty, Doc. There’s nothing left to pump.”

The frantic rhythm on the monitor suddenly degraded, stretching out and losing its bounce, until it leveled out into a flat, continuous tone. Asystole.

“No, no, no! He’s flatlining,” Dr. Harris said, his voice rising in panic. “Malphas, get me a milligram of epi right now! Push it straight into the line! Angela, start internal massage, bypass is failing!”

Malphas did not rush. He casually reached for a syringe of epinephrine, tapping the plastic barrel with a gloved finger to clear an imaginary air bubble, deliberately dragging out the seconds. He pushed the needle into the port and slowly depressed the plunger.

“Epi is in, Doc,” Malphas said.

“Come on, Arthur, squeeze. Give me something,” Dr. Harris muttered, frantically compressing the heart manually inside the chest cavity. His eyes were glued to the flatline on the monitor. “Nothing. It’s not taking. Angela, draw up another round of epi! Angela!”

Angela just stood there, her eyes locked on the flat green line. The vessel was completely shredded; the epinephrine was useless.

“Dammit... dammit,” Dr. Harris said after two agonizing minutes of manual massage against a dead monitor. He dropped his hands, letting out a defeated breath. “Stop the clock. Time of death, 02:14.”

The room fell into a heavy, exhausting silence, broken only by the hum of the ventilation system. Dr. Harris stepped back, ripping off his bloody gloves and throwing them into the biohazard bin.

“I don’t understand,” Dr. Harris said, his voice shaking as he looked at Angela. “The tissue shouldn’t have torn like that. I checked the line. I’m sorry, Angela. I know you tried to tell me his rhythm was off. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“It’s okay, Doctor,” Angela said, her voice completely hollow. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Dr. Harris nodded numbly and walked out of the suite to log the chart, leaving the two of them alone with the body.

Angela reached up and pulled down her surgical mask. Her lips were pale, cracked, and tasted like ash. She looked down at her hands. The tips of her fingers, usually glowing with a faint, imperceptible celestial light, were now stained with a deep, permanent charcoal gray that would not wash off with soap.

Malphas walked around the bed, stopping right beside her. He did not look triumphant. He looked almost disappointed, like a child who had broken a toy just to see how it worked inside.

“You actually did it,” Malphas said. “You took a soul.”

“I saved thousands,” Angela said.

“Maybe,” Malphas said, reaching into his pocket. “But Heaven’s gates just locked their deadbolts against you, Angela. You don’t belong up there anymore.”

He pulled out a small, metallic card key to a run-down apartment complex downtown and slipped it into her scrub pocket.

“Welcome to the ground floor,” Malphas said, turning toward the door. “I’ll show you where the cheap coffee is tomorrow.”