Work Text:
Dr. Neil Perry, the 53-year-old Head of Department of Oncology at the Princeton–Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey, stood in front of the mirror in the restroom attached to his chamber. He had this obsessive-compulsive habit of looking at himself for long in the mirror whenever the opportunity to do so presented itself during his long, hectic day as the most sought-after surgeon in the hospital. He would often stare and keep staring for long at his laterally inverted reflection in the mirror. His intense gaze fixed pointedly and particularly at his own pair of 53-year-old eyes. A pair of eyes that still oozed oodles of honesty and vulnerability, the same honesty and vulnerability that they had oozed 36 years ago when he was a high-spirited, sparkling-eyed, 17-year-old student at Welton Academy, the golden boy of Welton, the golden boy whose ebullience and energy knew no bounds, the golden boy who turned into a tragic hero overnight. That fateful, freezing-cold winter night. 36 years ago.
With his long, hard look at his mirror image still intact, Neil's eyes gradually shift to another part of his face - to his left temple. And to the long scar running across his temple. A 36-year-old scar. A scar that was a silent symbol of the resounding gunshot that he had fired that fateful, freezing-cold winter night 36 years ago. The resounding gunshot and the resulting near-fatal bullet wound that he had somehow survived by a miraculous flick of the fingers of fate. And lived. Lived to become the doctor that his father had so doggedly demanded of him.
Neil's long-fingered left hand - the same hand that had held the gun 36 years ago - instinctively went up to his left temple to "feel" the scar along its entire length. A scar that didn't disfigure but further beautified his beautiful face, his still beautiful-at-53 face. The scar that had become a facial feature in his case. An identification mark, as required in passports. And also a living relic of a dead past. A jolting reminder of the grim reality of that fateful, freezing-cold winter night when he had wagered his very life. An inescapable evidence of the extremity of his desperation 36 years ago.
In a strange, weird way, Neil loved that scar of his that ran along his left temple. He was almost proud of it, as if it was a badge of honour, a war medal for him. The scar stood for his history of having fought for himself. It also stood for his achievement of having survived.