Part 3Ignorance Kills

To my horror, she held her nose, glanced at him from a distance, then turned and uncapped a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from a cabinet, pouring it directly onto his wound.

"Hear that? A little post-op bleeding is normal. Why are you screaming like a banshee? Remember to pay for the soiled sheets."

"This surgery was performed by Dr. Flynn and overseen by Director Thorne. How could anything go wrong? We see plenty of entitled mothers like you."

The moment the hydrogen peroxide touched our son's wound, the surrounding flesh immediately curled and blanched.

She then continued to prod the raw flesh in his wound with tweezers.

Our son convulsed in agony, his body twisting, only to be yanked straight by the nurse. A guttural gasp rasped in his throat.

Watching my son, in too much pain to even cry, I desperately hammered the metal bed, struggling to get down.

"Son, my son, just a little longer. Mommy will find a way to save you."

He was only five, he should have been growing up without a care in the world. Instead, he was lying here. His manhood severed.

How ironic that Liam Thorne was the best surgeon in the city, having saved countless limbs, yet he refused to come back and save his own son.

As I saw my son's struggles weaken, I exerted all my strength, biting down, and deliberately breaking my own wrist.

Ignoring the searing pain of my fractured right hand, I slowly dragged myself next to my son, pressing tightly against his small body.

You were brought into this world by your mother, and your mother will never, ever abandon you.

In my fading consciousness, my phone, which had been without signal, suddenly flickered twice. I clenched my broken bone, using the pain to force myself to stay awake.

Even a sliver of hope, I had to try.

Dragging my broken right hand, I crawled on my knees until I finally reached my phone and dialed 911.

"Hello, my son has a severe injury and is bleeding heavily from his lower body. Our address is St. Jude's Medical Center..."

But the operator on the other end mercilessly rejected me.

"Patient transfer requires a certificate from the attending physician. Furthermore, you are already at the best hospital in this city. Please do not over-utilize medical resources."

I held the phone, almost in despair. By then, our son's pupils were already somewhat dilated.

He murmured faintly, over and over.

"Mommy, I hurt so bad. Where's Daddy? Didn't he say he'd stay with me if I was a brave little man?"

My heart felt like it was tearing apart. I wished the pain was mine.

Unsure how to respond, I could only press my forehead against his, trying to soothe him.

"Baby, don't sleep. Daddy will be back soon."

Now, I had no extravagant hopes. I accepted that my son had lost his manhood. I just wanted him to live. He was my flesh and blood.

I desperately hammered on the door, the glass shattering, piercing my palm, but I felt no pain.

If only my child could be saved, I would willingly die right now.

Perhaps heaven heard my prayer.

The door before me suddenly opened a crack. I frantically crawled out, only seeing the hurried back of a cleaning lady.

I knew this was the most she could do. I used to save empty bottles for her every time I visited.

My wrist was broken, so I crawled forward on my elbows. Soon, both elbows were a bloody mess, revealing bone.

I crawled tirelessly, leaving a long, crimson trail behind me.

Finally, a pair of leather shoes stopped in front of me.

I grabbed the person's pant leg, disregarding everything else, repeating my plea.

"Please, save my child."

Then I passed out.