The healer’s examination had concluded.
Looking at the uneven wounds on my daughter’s face, he immediately ordered her to be transferred to intensive care.
“Her condition is critical,” he whispered to the nurses. “Those claw marks are deep. She’s lost too much blood.”
Outside the intensive care room.
Kieran stared through the glass at our child, whose life was being maintained by breathing apparatus and various medical
devices, his face haggard with worry.
His knuckles were white as he pressed his hand against the cold glass, as if trying to reach her.
My spirit lingered inside the intensive care room, resting at my daughter’s bedside, lost in thought.
If only I could touch her one more time. If only I could heal her wounds with my own hands.
The swelling on her face had reduced by half, and the blood around her mouth had been carefully cleaned away by the nursing
assistant.
But this only made the wounds on her face more visible.
Especially the claw marks.
Four distinct lines running from her temple to her jaw. Deep. Deliberate.
It was obvious someone had used great force.
Someone who wanted to cause pain. Someone who enjoyed it.
Kieran stared blankly at our daughter, his hands clenched tightly into fists.
I could see the muscle in his jaw working as he ground his teeth.
“Kieran?”
