I hate....
I...
There's a familiar squeak of wheels in a Tokyo hospital one night. A sound that every employee knows and knows well. They never get used to it, however- regardless of the number of times they hear it- and it always fills them with dread. It's the sound a wheeled stretcher makes when it's being pushed by people in a panic. Professional people- as in doctors or nurses. That's what makes it so unnerving.
The receptionist looks up from her paperwork at the diversion, sighs unhappily and tries as best as she can to get back to it. It's hard for her to, but it's the only job she's got and she wants to keep it. Of course, nobody notices this at all. They never do.
The hospital is packed, but the ambulance staff manage to find room for this one. People move like water out of their way when they see the body of the patient, strapped down and breathing into a mask. The patient makes the occasional grunt as they are moved, but other than that, the only noises that come from them are harsh, shallow breaths; like chokes. Chokes of oxygen. The staff admire them for it. They don't know quite frankly how the patient, in the condition that they are in, is able to breathe at all.
The staff reach the Emergency Ward and get to work on the patient; fighting to bring them back to life. It's a struggle, though; it really is. Staff run in and run out constantly. Doctors, nurses, specialists; the list is countless. They're scared for a while that the patient is going to slip.
B-beep...
B-beep...
It takes some time, but eventually, they do. They don't know how, but they do. They all sigh and cheer quietly, as not to disturb the other patients. They're proud of themselves, even though they shouldn't really be. After all, they were only doing their jobs- and they're not out of the water yet, at all. They have a very, very long way to go and they know it. But because the patient is stable for the moment, they sigh and get back to work; one nurse staying behind to keep an eye on the patient so that she can holler for a doctor if needs be.
So, she stays there until her shift is over; even though it probably isn't going to be necessary. The patient remains steady with a regular heartbeat- the earlier complications over, for now. She knows she's supposed to be compassionate, but eventually ( because she's human), she gets bored.
After reading her copy of 'The Tokyo Gazette' for the third time, she puts it down and goes over to look at the patient. Not because something is going wrong, or anything like that; just because she's curious. Looking at them, however, upsets her- because it reminds her with an unwelcome jolt how fragile life is. How frighteningly fragile, indeed.
She's a large woman with what people describe as a good natured, plump face. She hates the fact that she's chubby; especially because she can't afford a new uniform and she's shrunken her own in the wash recently. Her shirt is stretched so tightly over her chest that she can read her own nametag perfectly, for Christ's sake: Izumi Etou, R.N..
She yawns and looks at the clock on the other side of the room; groaning with annoyance. She doesn't like doing night-shifts, but because she is regarded as a good nurse; she's been asked to stay behind on call for the last couple of weeks. She feels immediately guilty though for getting annoyed and looks back at the patient.
You selfish woman. It's not their fault that they're eating into your time.
However, regardless of the number of times she gets up and walks around, Izumi still can't seem to stop her eyes from drooping. She yawns again, louder this time; a steady drone which rings around the otherwise silent room. Although nobody except the patient is in there with her, she still feels embarassed.
Izumi goes out to get a coffee to keep herself awake. She figures that it can't do any harm- after all, the machine is only down the hall.
When she returns, she nearly ploughs into a young boy of about five. Izumi drops her coffee with the shock. The kid is a boy she recognises, being a son of one of the other patients in the ward. She has initially a mind to tell him off and send him back to where he belongs, until she realises what she's looking at.
The boy is staring at the patient and the patient is staring back at him. Their eyes are understandably bloodshot and it chills Izumi to see the scene. The kid's almost transfixed, as if he wants to move but can't, so Izumi taps him on the shoulder.
The boy jumps; af if bitten and turns round to face her. She had hoped her face would be assuring to him; but the kid's expression does not change to relief, as it usually did with most children who she cared for. Instead, she sees something that every motherly figure hates.
The kid's face, for lack of a better word, crumbles. And, not a moment later, he starts to cry.