A/N: Ok well, this is really a short drabble I suppose. I wrote this for my creative writing class and the prompt was to describe the setting of someone who has just killed another person. Naturally, I thought of Thirteen killing her brother. It's a different take on how she did it especially at the end (you'll see why when you read it), considering that she committed a crime by performing physician-assisted suicide and thus had to keep it a secret until people found out on their own. Anyways, please read and tell me what you think. :)

Disclaimer: All I own is this scene.

Asystole: the termination of myocardial contraction.

It's funny. In med school we learn all these words to describe the conditions of the human body. We read about them, repeat them, memorize them, then spit them back out on exams and in clinicals. It's almost robotic, our complete detachment from what these words actually mean and if we're lucky, we never let our walls down.

But as I stand here now, my shaking hands still gripping the empty syringe, I know that I am not one of the lucky ones. Because now asystole isn't just a word. It's lying in front of me, his normally twitching body now oddly still. I stare at his face, for once creaseless and pain free, remembering when we would make faces as children to see who could make the other laugh first; we didn't have anything to laugh about these last few days.

The smell of morphine sulfate, like a dozen rotting eggs, hits my nose and I fight to keep myself from gagging although I'm not quite sure if the smell is entirely to blame. No, it definitely isn't the smell. Six years out of med school and I've dealt with so much morphine I'm basically immune to its stench.

Six years out of med school and I've also come to know every inch of this hospital like the back of my hand, especially the patient rooms. There're two types: singles and doubles. Right now, I'm in a single. They're basically all the same but with a few variations here and there. The door is wide and swings slowly in order to allow the beds to be rolled in with little difficulty. A bathroom is tucked away in the corner equipped with all the extra handles and call buttons patients often need when they're too stubborn to wait for help (he was one of them). Over on the far wall, a window lets in the sun that manages to peek through the clouds on the three days a year that New Jersey is graced by decent weather (today isn't one of them). A small sofa sits below it, its graying cushions worn to the seat in some places from the nights spent by loved ones during their unwavering vigil (I had been one of them). And then there's the bed, shielded by a thin curtain when the door is left open for the doctors' and nurses' convenience and depending on the patient, a variety of things flank it. You could always judge who was circling the drain based on how many things they had attached to them. The rule was: the fewer, the closer. All he had was the EKG and an oxygen tank.

The morphine is fading now and instead I smell disinfectant, floor polish, and him. As if I need to be reminded.

"Doctor?"

Tears threaten to spill down my face so I tear my eyes away from his unmoving form and focus on a point on the mustard yellow walls. It's another few seconds before I get them under control, the single, steady beep of the EKG ringing loudly in my ears, and when I do I quickly dispose of the syringe in the biohazard container mounted on the wall before spinning around on my heels.

"Call it."

I don't give the dumfounded resident a second glance back.

A/N: I'm intrigued at Thirteen having a brother and the possibilities that brings. I'm actually working on another story with him in it before he dies. Also, that line about "the three days a year that New Jersey is graced by decent weather" I originally wrote as Seattle because it's known for crappy weather but I changed it to New Jersey here. No idea if New Jersey actually has crappy weather haha. Anyways, I'd appreciate any feedback. :)