„The Anniversary."
Disclaimer: I have no rights to the E.R. The beta was Twitter 25.
Carol Hathaway took her seat at the nurse station and with a soft sigh, rubbed her temples. She picked up a cup of coffee and raised it to her mouth. The nurse smiled as her mouth filled with the bracing liquid which flowed to her stomach, filling it instantly with a pleasant warmth. As the day was coming to an end and the woman, at last had some time to think of it, it was definitely a difficult day for her, the pretty dark haired nurse of the Chicago hospital admitted now, recalling the events of the day.
It was not only about all the cumbersome preparations for the one hundred and twentieth anniversary of the opening of the Chicago Country General Hospital that had distracted the hospital staff from the reality they lived in for the previous several weeks, quite as if the anniversary was going to be the most important event ever, all over the whole wide world. It was not only about the problems the hospital staff had with young Ruth Johnson since she had arrived in here two months ago, heavily pregnant and complaining about basically everything, as if the young woman's status was nothing less than the one of the very queen of the whole universe, used to have everybody following her every order and wish. Carol Hathaway had to admit that the young namesake of Mrs. Johnson she had a chance to know – even if for such a short time, exactly twenty years ago – didn't resemble her kind great great grandmother in the slightest. Late Ruth Johnson would be probably rolling in her grave where she was put to her eternal rest those twenty years ago – so long ago yet to Carol seemed it was so recent – if only she could see from heaven assuming such a place did exist how her descendant pushed a nurse call button every now and then, alerting the nurses who ran to the room taken by young Miss Johnson to determine their troublesome patient's needs. Carol could swear the girl was doing this with a malicious satisfaction. The expression on her face swollen due to the complicated pregnancy resembled to a malicious grimace on the face of a persian cat, one of those which always looked like they were plotting something evil against the whole humanity, constantly making up new ways to anger others. It was enough to take a look at its muzzle to know this.
It was Ruth's room where Carol just came from – only to explain in a raised voice to the insolent girl that having a mild nausea was not a reason to call for help, not now when the hospital staff was dealing with the victims of a shooting for the entire day and explaining it to her was an experience about just as pleasurable as drinking the coffee now, one that had already started to fill the woman's stomach with a wonderful warmth. Carol closed her eyelids, savouring the smell that permeated the nurse station. For a moment there was nothing but just smiling Carol on whose face bliss was painted and her cup of coffee – the only really existing object in the universe to which the station had shrunk for this one very short blessed moment.
The moment with a coffee was the most pleasurable one Carol Hathaway could experience this week filled with hustling and bustling of the hospital staff preparing for the anniversary. She could remember the previous anniversary being celebrated so uproariously – it was a twenty years ago. The nurse could remember it well; that anniversary lingered in her memory not only due to the very nature of that day but also due to the incident with little Wilson, a small boy claiming his best friend was shot by a mysterious man stalking them in the park. Carol sometimes wondered what happened to the boy whom she had treated back then as he was recovering from the minor injuries he suffered when he was running from the man who murdered his friend – or at least it was what the child claimed. Even if the truth as Carol discovered later wasn't exactly what the boy claimed it to be.
Carol Hathaway was thinking now about young Wilson and his friend who died back then from a bullet when she recalled the events of this day. The problems with Ruth and the preparations weren't the only one that contributed to the fact that this day was far - very far – from being one that could be described as nice. This day four people got admitted to the hospital with severe stomach and head wounds; two of whom died on the operating table. For the last two months a mysterious gunman was terrorizing Chicago, the actions of the man took the lives of seventeen inhabitants of Chicago. The police was doing their best to discover the identity of the masked man who opened fire out of the sudden in the park and yet ran away before someone had the chance to catch him. Only five of his victims survived – two of them weren't going to be able to walk again - and none of them could describe him, a man whom they saw for a short fleeting moment until he opened fire. The hospital staff was treating the victims of the Chicago Gunman as the newspapers called him this day and it seemed like no one was going to discover the identity of the man so far. The profilers put forward the suppositions he was a dangerous psychopath killing for a mere fun he derived from his acts and claimed due to this mental health affliction of his, catching him was going to turn out to be very difficult, especially if he branched out killing people not only in the park which was being patrolled by the police now but in the whole of Chicago.
Carol Hathaway sighed, thinking about Ruth, the anniversary upcoming and the mysterious psychopath – the thoughts entangled in her head, creating in her mind a mixture of thoughts. Holding the white cup with an effigy of Mickey Mouse on in one hand, she reached for the remote and turned the TV set on. The screen flickered and the calm female voice broke the silence.
"The police has managed to catch the gunman terrorizing Chicago," the pretty black woman wearing a green jacket started. Carol raised the cup and took a sip, observing what was happening on the screen. She frowned, trying not to say a single word, listening attentively to the voice on the screen. She heard the familiar buzzing – it was Ruth Johnson again but this time Carol wasn't going to go to her although she was now the only nurse in the station, even if she knew there were laws against ignoring the patients' calls. She had to listen to what the police had to say on the shooter. She took another sip, half closing her eyes to concentrate better on the taste and the words coming out of the screen; the coffee flowed down to her stomach.
On the screen there appeared an image of a handcuffed man escorted by two policeman; a Caucassian, relatively young – not older than thirty – and with dark blonde hair. On his handsome face there was a strangely serene expression, almost quite as if, Carol thought, the man wasn't fully aware of what he was actually doing as he was taking lives of the innocent residents of Chicago, strange as it could seem. His face was also strangely familiar to her, almost as if she used to know him – even if it was back in the distant past. Maybe it was the expression of innocence on his pale face that made her think this.
" We know the name of the shooter," the voice of the TV presenter announced. "The Chicago gunman finally got his name. It's Wilson Geary," the woman said.
Carol Hathaway's eyes widened. She finally recognized the face. Even tiger cubs grow up after some time, regardless of how harmless they could seem at the beginning, turning into dangerous animals finally – the thought came through the woman's head as the cup fell out of her shivering hand, splashing its content all over the floor.