Chapter 2 The debris

Section 2

The Debris of the Past

Of the pastThe distant gunfire had dulled into a rhythm. Maria sat next to Smith with her blood-stained fingers and unfocused eyes. The nearby hut's fire flickered out. Burnt wood and shattered trust were the scents that William left behind when he left. She didn't weep. No, not yet. She was unable to pay for it. Her own wounds bled as well, somewhere in the middle of love, loyalty, and lies. But survival took precedence. Always.

Maria Johnson didn't pick medicine because of its opulence. She chose it in order to survive. Maria's thoughts were anything but still as the nighttime air was thick with silence. She trembled as she spoke Smith's name, like a secret longing to be heard. She imagined the faint leather and something primal and masculine scent of his skin and how it would stick to her fingertips for a long time after she touched him. Her body recalled the heat of his breath against her collarbone, the rough scratch on her thighs caused by his stubble, and the growl in his voice when he called her name in the dark. She shut her eyes and let fantasy and memory blur. With just a glance, Smith-strong, unpredictable, and irritating-had a way of entering her space. He didn't ask for help. He asserted. And despite Maria's stubbornness, that possessive gaze made her give way. She wanted to feel his hands again pin her wrists above her head, to give in without losing her power, and to taste the wildness that they shared that no words could describe. She imagined straddling him, her hips grinding in rhythm to his breath, both of them lost in the desperate need to devour each other. He was her skin-on sin, her temptation, and her prayer. She was messy, tangled, drenched in sweat, gasping, and wanted him completely rather than lightly. The kind of longing that broke bones and tore down walls. Maria gave a dark smile. Smith was unaware of the storm he had caused in her and the fire he had started each time he entered a room as though he owned it-and her. But he would soon. She would wrap herself around him, whisper his name, and let him know how badly she wanted the chaos that only he could bring. And when morning came, he'd never forget the woman who made the night burn.

Maria was born in the suburbs of Recife, Brazil, where hope was a scarce commodity. As a child, she witnessed her mother exchange favors for food and her father vanish into the haze of political riots and unpaid debts. She became clever due to hunger. She was made strong by abuse. Furthermore, her ambition made her risky. She was fourteen when she gave her first injection, an improvised insulin shot with a salvaged syringe and stolen medications to save her uncle's life. She was passing underfunded clinics and trading answers for cash at school by the time she was sixteen to study any textbooks she could find. Dr., a street doctor in the area Gomes noticed her persistence. He assisted after letting her observe. She was then taught to break rules, fake signatures, and buy silence with whispered warnings. Her splendor? That had both good and bad effects. Maria was the kind of woman that men noticed twice: first with lust and then with suspicion. She was tall and dramatically sculpted, had skin that was polished bronze, hair that looked like ink, and a body that was shaped like poetry. She was taught how to use it early on. With the intention of surviving, not malice. She was proficient in deception, Portuguese, and English by the time she turned twenty. She was offered a way out by America, with its promises of change and new beginnings. She faked the rest-student visas, transcripts, and a clean past sufficient to go unnoticed-and claimed a partial scholarship to a Miami nursing school. Although her beauty made things easier, it was her determination that kept her going. Maria was working three jobs, bribing her way through bureaucracies, and stitching her own wounds after midnight while the majority of her classmates were complaining about their lack of sleep and finals. She chose her partners carefully-men who could provide her with shelter, safety, or protection. She was unable to afford the luxury of love. If not, then Still, beneath her steely exterior was a ghost-carrying woman. She never mentioned Brazil. She never talked about her sister, who disappeared during a drug raid, or the boy she left behind, who taught her how to lie and kiss simultaneously. She was known for her calm hands and sharp eyes in the hospital. Under her direction, no patient died unless they were already too far gone. She never got scared. She never violated protocol, at least not in public. She occasionally broke the rules in private to assist patients without documentation. She had witnessed what occurred when the system failed the weak. She would not permit it to occur again. The objective was not to meet Smith. He was bold, arrogant, and wounded in a way that mirrored her own long-forgotten wounds. He didn't realize how far from angelic she was when he called her "angel." However, William was the first to see her. William, with his sad eyes, military posture, and overflowing library and burden-laden mind. She hadn't anticipated feeling drawn between them-two brothers united by love but apart by blood. William was the stone, while Smith was the fire. Also, Maria? She was the storm that they both attempted to chase after. Maria was forced to face the truth she had been avoiding now that William was gone and Smith was bleeding in her arms. She had no idea which brother she cherished. Perhaps neither. Perhaps both. In a world where silence was necessary for survival, perhaps love was just another word for weakness. Maria, on the other hand, was certain of one thing as the sun approached the charred hills: her past had followed her across oceans and had finally caught up with her. This time, it was refusing to let go. The field hospital was barely functioning, with bullet holes stitched into the canvas like brutal embroidery and torn tarps flapping in the wind. Iodine, sweat, and desperateness permeated the air inside. Maria sped up. Smith's blood still made her hands sticky. He was currently stable. However, his wounds did not haunt her. William was it. She recalled how his eyes flickered between her and Smith before turning into smoke as he turned away. There had been injuries. But there's more to it: betrayal. "Where is William?" She questioned the young soldier nearby the radio. "With Corporal Meyers, left for recon. Little was said. He obviously did not. Never did he. However, Maria was aware of it-he was retreating, closing doors that had only just been opened. Additionally, she was unable to stop it. The gunfire returned outside. Louder. Closer.

Maria seized her coat. The field lights moved slowly. "Going someplace?" With raised eyebrows, the doctor asked. She stated, "to locate him." "William?"

"No. Myself."

However, she heard a familiar voice on the radio as she stepped outside. This is Alpha Recon Unit. We have movement. We also have a traitor in our midst. requesting immediate assistance." Maria convulsed. William was speaking. And what was the last thing he said before the radio cut off? "Maria."