A Sea of Darkness

Summary: When asked to write about her life for a project for work, Abby remembers what life was like when she was 13.

Disclaimer: I don't own ER…yadda yadda….I don't own Abby…My friend owns a rat named Abby…I own a stuffed dog named Abby…yadda yadda…I own all of the characters except the doctors mentioned, Abby, Eric and Maggie. Is that enough?

Spoilers: Maybe for season nine, but I don't think so.

Rating: PG (I think I say the 'D' word)

Archive: Sure, but I gotta get that email first

A/N: I'm in a writing mood. I like the name Abby. And so, this story was written. R&R, or I will never write again. (And that might be a good thing, you know) My very first Fanfic.

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A Sea of Darkness

Chapter one: The Story Begins

 There are things in my life I'm not proud of. When I think back, I actually wince, because the memories are so fresh in my head. The bad ones always stay. But to be honest for once, if I had the choice, I wouldn't take those things back. They made me who I am. And, although sometimes I hate myself, deep down I know that I wouldn't want to change.

I have the ability to conveniently forget those memories. If you just keep pushing them back, they'll stay back.

Unless of course you are forced to remember these memories, write them down and read them out loud to your colleagues.

Which is exactly what I had to do that rainy day when no patient showed up at the ER. Damn you, safe drivers.

I respect Dr. Weaver very much, but this idea was bad. For me, anyway. I know that some people love to talk about their lives. But, looking at my friends faces, I concluded that nobody in particular wanted to write, let alone talk about their lives. I know for a fact that Carter, despite the rich-boy background, doesn't really like to talk about his parents, his brother. I know Susan and her sister aren't exactly close. I doubt Luka really wants to tell everyone how his family died. Nobody wants to think like that.

Except Dr. Weaver.

I decided that, despite the fact I sometimes felt sorry for myself, I really hadn't the worst background. Far from it. Things were always rough, heck, they still are, but it wasn't so bad. It was just different to what most people were used to. Looking back, at memories that are so fresh in my head, it's…I don't know. It was sort of bittersweet.

We all sat around a big table. I tapped the table with my fingers, a nervous habit I'd developed over the years, until Susan told me to stop before I broke the table. I'm amazed that she still manages to keep a still head. I've heard her talk to her sister. It's no walk in the park. She is a very good friend, one of the ones that only comes along once or twice in a lifetime.

Friends were sort of scarce for me. I wasn't exactly the friendliest person, and for the most part I was just the weird girl in the corner. Not that I cared. I was not trusting enough to let anybody into my life. People would take one look at me and run, fast.

I figured out over the years that teachers are pretty stupid as they go. And they think I'm stupid. They'd go off on some talking lecture thing, and naturally I would tune it out, preferring to wonder what brand of shoes Molly Jones, head cheerleader and rich girl, was wearing and how much they cost. Or looking at my desk and wondering how old the etches and scratches were, and who inflicted such abuse to the poor desk. And of course, I was the one the teachers all looked out for. It was all I could do to not take the yard stick and shove it down one of their throats. You could see it in their eyes when I walked in, they'd follow me with their gaze. They'd watch me the minute I came in until the minute I left. If I so much as dropped a pencil, detention was in order. It didn't really seem fair.

It also didn't seem fair that the teachers always called on me, like they thought I didn't know the answers. I didn't even have to listen to the lectures; I already knew what they were going to ask and the answers. My intelligence wasn't a problem.

My attitude was.

The teachers were bothered by the fact that no matter what subject, I always did lousy schoolwork. They knew I was better than that. I was. But, I liked to be the right one. When they thought I would do well at a test, I would fail miserably. This kept up until my teacher wanted to quit teaching and go into turtle breeding. Then suddenly, my marks shot up, on account of I was mysteriously smart now, and the teacher almost turned insane. It was quite fun to bug them. Not with words, I never talked to them. Not with behavior, I didn't do anything. But with these mind games they didn't get, and would never get. I was too sly for grade eight.

It gave me quite an advantage. There were times I could do things, things like toss all the science books out the window or break all the chalk in the room, and then make it look that I had been an innocent spectator of these horrible crimes. It was pretty entertaining.

After school, I always had to find Eric, because God knows all the stuff he can get into. Like dying the neighbor's poodle red. Like managing to break three windows with one baseball. Like making the Barbie dolls go 'swimming' in water hot enough to melt them. It was a never-ending list of mischief.

But I always looked forward to seeing him. He was the only thing right in my life. We were probably closer than any of the other siblings in the world. We didn't have a dad, half of the time we didn't have a mom. It was just us. I practically raised him.

And nobody messed with him, because they'd have me to deal with. Nobody wants that.

Evenings for me were basically two things: good or bad.

The good didn't happen often, and when it did, it you thanked the stars. Maggie would somehow manage to stay out of the liquor, go to the store, buy food and act like Mom. She would be clear-headed and happy. That was good.

The bad were the opposite of the above. By nightfall I would usually be locked in my room, staying away from the wrath of the woman wielding something dangerous.

My solace was books. There were some classics I'd read, some old ones, new ones, long ones, short ones. In each story, the main character usually ended up as a hero or heroine of some sort. No book ever told the story of a girl, her little brother and her crazy mom. What a story it would be. And here I was writing one for work, many years later.

Dr. Weaver announced that she wanted a friendlier work environment.

I thought we might have to do some work of some sort. I was right, sort of.

She wanted us to 'write about events in our life, and state reasons why you became a healthcare provider.' I can basically describe the reaction as 'bad'.

Carter asked if we had a choice. Romano was there to give a very good answer: No.

I felt like I was in school again. Only I'm older. In years. Even by grade eight, I acted probably too mature for my age. Did I really have a choice? I couldn't act foolish or giggly like Molly, if I did; my home life and Eric were at stake. I couldn't just decide to go out with somebody after school; I had to get home right away, so long as we still had a home. Sometimes the rent was late. Mom had to work like two jobs at once. I had trained Eric to manage to get jobs doing housework and stuff for my neighbors, many of whom were elderly. Cute little boy + Older person who doesn't get visited often = Lots of jobs and money. I'm good at math. And heavy duty housework.

So, now I had to write about my life. That was the hard part.

The whole doctor/nurse thing was sort of easy. I wanted to become one because…well, for starters, I was going to show everyone a thing or two about my intelligence and attitude. But, there had to be a better reason than that. Maybe I didn't even know. Maybe it wasn't so simple

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Two Weeks Later

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We are seated at that big table, again. I trace the decorative lines on it with my finger. There is defiantly tension in the air, because I think nobody wants to read the stuff they had to write. What's supposed to happen is, everyone wrote about their lives and when we read out our compositions, people are supposed to know you better. Yeah, right. I doubt that people are that naïve. More likely this will just create some gossip and problems. But really, do I ever complain?

Dr. Weaver tells us that we have to read in order of the alphabet by first name. For the tenth time in my life, I wish my name was Zora. Zora is a really nice name. I like it anyway.

Dr. Weaver tells me to read my paper. I want to tell her to shut up, but I don't, of course. That would just add to the tension.

"I decided to write about my life when I was 13." I explain. It really wasn't that hard. If I had to choose a time in my life that I found interesting, provocative and sincere, that would be it.

"So, uh, here it is. Oh, and I call it 'A Sea of Darkness'" I take a deep breath and start to read.

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A/N: So, are you going to review? Are you, Are you, are you, are you?

Is my stuff good? Do you think I'm good enough to write ER myself, or bad enough to leave fanfiction.net forever? Well, how about letting me know by pressing the button known as review? Say it with me. Review, review, REVIEW!

P.S: I don't own Barbie. Somebody else does.