Note

Sweat ran down the doctor's face. He couldn't fail. He would perform the surgery successfully. One slip of the hand, and the patient would die.

He was very, very tired. He'd been working for 37 hours straight, with no sleep. This was a demanding job, but he still didn't regret choosing it. It gave him a surge of joy whenever he managed to save a life.

This was a very complex surgery. A very severe and rare illness plagued the patient. This was an unprecedented case, and the doctor had no past cases to refer to as to what to do if a certain situation occurred. He'd have to follow his instincts.

This patient was an eight-year-old girl. She had a family who loved her, very very much. He would save her, for their sake.

He worked furiously, but waves of exhaustion washed over him. His judgement was impaired by fatigue, and he forgot some of the things he'd been taught.

He carried out the surgery wrongly.

The girl died.

They blamed him. They shouted at him and were crying, crying and crying. Guilt and horror consumed him, a dark deep void of oblivion. He'd failed. He'd taken her from them.

He cradled his head in his hands, sobbing at home. He should've tried harder to stay alert. It was all his fault. If only he'd been more careful, he wouldn't have had killed her.

My fault. My fault. My fault...

He was supposed to save lives, not take them. Blame and hate showered on him. He was bombarded by netizens, shouted at by the girl's family. 

My fault. My fault. My fault...

He drank. He drank bottles and bottles of wine, trying to drown out his troubles.

His life had no meaning, if he couldn't save others. He just decided to end it all. A couple of pills was all it took.

They found him dead, with a note, which was covered with wet, salty spots. The note was written in his handwriting, and had a few simple words on it.

I didn't mean to. Please forgive me.