Dr. Claire Saunders is a lie. The realization is like ripping away a band-aid, pain and breath sharp, skin tender. She exhales, rejecting the metaphor. Too fitting of the doctor she isn't, even as she cares for Victor's wounds.
Her fingers worry the edges of Whiskey's file, mutilating the corners as irrational fear presses down. But she pushes it aside and opening the file is like tearing at wallpaper: jagged edges and abrupt stops. A clashing kaleidoscope of layers peeking through, but none of them familiar.
Lips to her flask, she longs for the lie of being Dr. Claire Saunders.