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"You make mistakes, Malucci...mistakes that kill people."
The words were still ringing in his ears, burning like acid into his soul. All he had wanted was to be a good doctor, to be able to help his patients. To prove to himself that he could heal, not harm, which seemed to be the legacy handed down in his genes. To prove to himself that he was a better man than his father ever was.
But he couldn't change his heredity, even though, unlike his father, he had never meant to hurt anyone. His good intentions hadn't been able to redeem the outcome. A man was dead because of his mistake, and Kerry Weaver, whom he had respected more than he'd respected anyone for some time, wouldn't let him forget that fact.
Not that he ever could. It weighed on him heavily, eating away at him night and day. And added to his burden of guilt was the fact of Weaver's condemnation. So like his father's.
"You'll never amount to anything, you sorry sack of shit."
Those words used to puncutate the blows that fell on his young body, although there was never any doubt as to what hurt the most. The bruises, the abrasions, the broken bones...those healed with time. The scars left by the words never had.
He had hoped that by becoming a doctor, he could vindicate himself. That the frightened child who hid behind the walls he had built around himself could be able to point to one thing in his life and say, "See, this is good." And that maybe other people could recognize that good and acknowledge it, so that kindness could gradually erode away the walls that harshness had built. But it looked as though that wasn't to be.
He had tried to redeem himself after that mistake, but nobody seemed to be able to see past the fact that his bad call had cost a patient his life. Weaver certainly didn't see it. He had no doubts that, if his father were still alive, he wouldn't see it either.
And, just as that day when, after fifteen years of taking his father's blows, he finally broke and struck back, today Weaver had pushed him to the limit with her verbal blows, and he had yelled back.
And so she had fired him, reminding him once more of what a liability he was. Of how he killed people with his mistakes.
Dully, he trudged to the door of his dingy little apartment, fishing his keys from his pocket and unlocking the door without any real thought as to what he was doing. His brain was so full of turmoil that nothing external really registered on him. Slamming his door behind him, he tossed his keys down on a table beside the door and ran his hands wearily through his hair.
His father had been right. Weaver had been right.
He was nothing.
He would never be anything.
Without thinking, he moved into the bathroom, placing his hands on either side of the sink and leaning heavily forward, blinking at his reflection in the mirror. Only it wasn't his reflection that he saw, not the accurate one anyway. What he saw was the scrawny little boy with the pale face and wide, frightened eyes that he had once been. With a cry that was somewhere between a sob and an angry yell, he pulled back his fist, smashing it into the mirror, watching in morbid satisfaction as it shattered into a thousand silvered shards, some of which cut into the tanned flesh of his hand. Miraculously, the cuts weren't deep, and he was surprised at how little pain he felt. Holding his bloody hand closer for inspection, he watched fascinated as the red liquid welled from the cuts, dripping slowly down, staining the olive skin.
Shower. That was what he needed. Turning on the water, he adjusted the temperature and stepped in, still fully clothed. It didn't strike him as the least bit odd. No, everything seemed to be gauzy and hazy anyway, his thinking most of all. Moving into the stream, he tilted his face back, letting the warm water cascade over him, feeling it as it plastered his brown hair to his skull and molded his sodden clothes to his body. The water stung as it hit his mangled hand and he watched as the water turned slightly pink and washed away. And then he understood. Water wouldn't wash away the pain, the guilt. Only blood would do that.
Opening the stall door, he reached out onto the tile floor, picking up one of the glass shards, oblivious to the water that splashed from the still-running shower onto the floor. Shutting the door once more, he held the shard lovingly, stroking a finger gently along the edge of it, going back once more and pressing slightly harder this time, watching as the jagged piece bit into the pad of his finger and drew a single drop of blood. He raised the finger to his mouth immediately, tasting the warm, salty fluid as it dissolved onto his tongue. And then he took the shard resolutely in hand and drew it slowly but firmly down the inside of his wrist, watching as if from a distance as the flesh parted and the blood spurted out. He wasn't sure whether it really didn't hurt or if his emotional numbness had reached such a point as to numb physical sensations as well. Switching hands, he drew the shard down the inside of the opposite wrist, then leaned heavily against the wall, dropping the shard onto the shower floor. Slumping down to a sitting position, he blinked at what he had done.
How could he ever have thought he could be anything other than what he was? How could he have ever thought he could actually be anything but someone who hurt, someone who killed, like his father? He had thought he could accomplish it in finding a new role model, a better one. But he was a Malucci, after all.
Well. He wouldn't hurt anyone ever again. He was making sure of that.
He blinked weakly at the crimson water that welled and washed down the drain and slipped into darkness.
*Finis*
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A/N: I honestly hope this isn't how Dave exits the show, but I needed an outlet for my angst. I'm not happy with the ending, either, but that's how I needed to write it.