Disclaimer: I don't own anything from any of the TMNT universes. However, I do think I own this story, and the person telling it. Please dont sue. I'm beyond broke.

A/N: For those of you who're fretting about 'Cutting Edge,' don't worry. I'm not planning on abandoning it, I've started writing the epilogue, but it might take a while. But now, to something completely different. I've been wanting to write a TMNT story that deals with the kind of reality we deal with. It's very different from the stuff I usually write, and it's only gonna take few short chapters to tell the tale. Sensitive readers, be warned: I'm not cutting back on anything with this. My main purpose is to keep it as true to life as literally possible. I talked some to my mom to be able to get a better insight to the subject; I hope it shows. As usual, please don't forget to review before you leave. Thank you.

ROOM 317

by

Mickis

Genre: Drama

Language: English

Rating: T

Summary: An outsider tells the story of a unique man's fate. I think you know him, even though he might've changed a little with time. WARNING! Character death.

Chapter 1 – The Man

Death, it's not just a physical state of being. No, it's so much more than that final transition. It's a feeling, a sense of presence, a… Actually, the only word I can come up with to describe it is 'company.' Ironic as it may be, the loss of company is company in itself, if that makes any sense? I don't know, I guess you need to have experienced it yourself in order to understand.

I'll never forget my first encounter with death. My story is somewhat of a tour behind the scenes of the process. You see, I used to work at a hospital. I wasn't a doctor or anything. In fact, I had no education in the subject. Back then, I was hired for my experience. I'd been taking care of this young girl earlier. There'd been some sort of "accident" before she was born, when she was still in the womb, and she was years behind her age in her development. She was fourteen when I first started with her and her mind was as co-dependent as a two year-olds. Other than that she couldn't really control her body. Basically, she was tied to her wheelchair from the moment she got out of bed in the morning, to the second she closed her eyes at night. So, when I finished school and set out to get a job, I pretty much went for the stuff I had experience with.

Hospitals.

Sure, I'd never worked at a hospital before, but I knew how to take care of people, and so because of it, they hired me. And it was on one of those eleven floors that I had my very first experience with death.

Even though I might've been twenty-two at the time, I had never really lost anyone. My parents had me in their late thirties and so all my grandparents were buried before I was even born. If you don't count my neighbor dying from a heart attack when I was twelve, I was what you would call a virgin when it came to death. Besides, Mr. Brown and I weren't really the close type of neighbors. We'd wave to each other whenever I passed by his house, but that was pretty much it. I have no idea why I got invited to his funeral. Maybe it was just my parents dragging my brother and I along.

But even though that funeral had been morbid, with his friends and family crying at each other's shoulders during the ceremony, it was nothing at all like the real thing. The funeral was the PG-rated version of death, while my first real experience of it was the director's cut.

One of the strongest elements about it is the silence; never before had it felt so… loud. It was almost as if the silence in itself was a qualified sound. God, I can still hear that dreadful silence if I close my eyes. The deafening effect of it may have been due to the contrast of his screaming pleas and choking breaths, echoing distantly in my ears. That, along with the ghostly sensation of his limp hand in my grasp, was enough to make me feel as though the very walls of the room were closing in on me. His fingers had been so tightly curled around my hand, I actually found a bruise from my engagement ring later that day. It had been a solid clasp of desperation, and now… they were just lying there, lifeless.

But what really hit me when I sat there in my silence, by his bed, was the soulless look in his unmoving eyes. His eyes were what had fascinated me the most about him. His soil brown gaze had immediately captured me, almost physically pulled me in. I remember looking into those eyes when I was first introduced to him, thinking: 'My god, how unfair.' It was a horrible feeling, knowing he was going to die, right from the moment I set my eyes on him. Of course, I knew about the cliché rule how you're not supposed to get too close to your patients. But lying there at that hospital, on that floor, they were all going to die. It was only humane to offer them a little company on the way.

He was one of the few patients that caught my eye on my first day working there. I was pretty much taught the routine on the ward, and was only allowed a quick minute inside each room. The nurse barely even mentioned the names of the patients during her very quick but very thorough tour. It wasn't until a few days later that I got to go the round by myself, and it wasn't until weeks after that that I actually got the hang of it. Like with everything else in life, I found my favorites.

Room 317 was one of them.

Behind that door, a unique man hid. He'd been staying in that room for three whole months before I started working there, and his body had surrendered to the cancer. The floor I worked on was filled with patients who were in the last stage of cancer. Everything had been done in trying to save their lives, and everything had failed. All that was left was the final transition, and like living deads they laid there in their beds, waiting for their bodies to give up completely. Like the rest of them, his body was weak and skinny. It was weird, because he didn't seem like a skinny person. His shoulders were broad and he was fairly tall, six feet tall. His brown eyes were sunken into his skull, with dark circles around them.

He was fragile, unlike his mind.

He was the most remarkable person I'd ever met. I loved his sense of humor. He always had this mischievous look in his eyes whenever he said anything, and I just knew he was thinking some illegal, dirty thought. But he wasn't repelling or anything. No, he was dirty in a charming kind of way. Even though he was bald and frail, he'd still managed to enchant every single female on the staff with his wits and his crooked smile.

He was one of the few people dying that was still so full of life.

Coming into his room was always a pleasure.

His name was Casey Jones, he was thirty-nine years old and he was a victim of stomach cancer. I remember he always told me these stories of how he and his best friend got into trouble when they were younger. Many of them were about the two of them getting kicked out of bars for being too drunk, but some of them were quite original, to say the least. That friend of his appeared to be just as crazy as he was, if perhaps not more. And the thing is, he always had a new story to tell whenever I came in to check on him. He had quite a life to look back on. I guess that was both a good thing and a bad thing.

Apart from his friend, there was one more thing he used to talk about constantly – his daughter. Her name was Brady and she was his pride and joy. I'd never actually met her, but I had seen her on pictures. And the way he described her, she really did sound like daddy's girl - both in looks and personality. She had short chestnut brown hair and wide, brown eyes to go with it. She was quite tall for her age and her legs seemed to grow a little too fast for her body. He told me she would get her face infested with freckles in the summer, but that came from her mother. Apparently she had some trouble in school. She would cut classes and get into fights with other students, mostly boys, since she was kind of a tomboy herself. From what I understood, the two of them had had a great relationship.

There wasn't a thing in the world he could deny her, and she quickly learned to take advantage of that. He used to bring her with him on his motorcycle and whenever she had hockey practice, he was always the loudest parent on the grandstand. Her mother was always worrying about what the two of them would get themselves into, but she must have known he'd never do anything to harm her. He loved his little Brady more than anything. I'm certain he was a wonderful father.

Sadly, Brady stopped visiting him when they moved him to the third floor. It was then official that her daddy wasn't going to get well again. She was just eleven at the time, so I can't really blame her, nor did he. He never said anything bad about her; the way he spoke about her, she seemed like an angel living on earth. In truth, she lived with his ex wife. Her name was April and she came by twice a week to see him - and it was fairly obvious how much he still loved her.

That usual devilish gleam in his eyes would transform into a look of pure adoration as soon as she stepped into the room.

April, on contrary to him and Brady, was very short. Her entire body was very petite and feminine. She had brown hair and eyes just like the rest of them, but they weren't quite as dark as theirs. Besides, her hair was wild and wavy, and even though she tried to tame it with that hair clip she always wore, it always seemed to escape its claws and frame her small features with its warm curls.

Even while divorced, I could tell they shared a special bond that went beyond the naked eye. She might not have been in love with him, but it was obvious how much she still cared about him. I could hear it in her voice when she spoke to him, so gentle and concerned, as if talking any louder would unleash her banished tears.

It was killing her to see him like that.

The man she had married, the father of her child, was slowly withering away from this world. She always had this bitter look in her eyes whenever she left his room to go home. She never stayed longer than an hour, and the entire time she sat there next to him, all he wanted to know was how Brady was doing. She would sometimes give him a recent picture of the girl and start talking about her rebellious behaviour in school and at home. The disease had hit her pretty hard, like it would with most children.

Her hero was going to die and she basically hated him for it.

He always asked April if she could try to bring her for her next visit, and the poor woman never had the heart to tell him that she really didn't want to come. She would always nod and say,

"Sure, I'll ask her."

And then, she would leave.

But when he needed her the most, she wasn't there.