The contents of this story may upset some people, I'll warn you ahead of time! This story takes place during the season 15 premiere, and a character other than Greg dies---I'm not gonna spoil it for you, but I will say this: the person who dies is one of the series' favorites. This character is my favorite in the series' history, it was difficult to write, and I wrote this trying to keep in mind how my character (OFC alert!) would probably react to the death of her best friend. Sorry if it makes you sad. Sorry for any typos! Please read and reveiw!!
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If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever.
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It's easier to leave than to be left.
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Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?
~ Clarence the Angel – It's A Wonderful Life ~
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-Part 1-
"Left"
A busy emergency room in slow motion. Sound is slowed, deep, and warped. People—doctors, nurses, patients and their family members—move about inch by inch, time creeping by, as the world outside of these walls flies by at the speed of light. A small boy with his arm in a navy blue sling sits on a gurney outside of Curtain 3, his mother sitting next to him as they wait to be discharged. Two nurses push a gurney from Trauma 1 out into the hallway and over to the elevators outside of Curtain 3. An elderly man rests against the wall of Curtain 1. A doctor helps a drunk man, walking in from the waiting room and past the front desk where several staff members stand around not doing much of anything.
Greg, Archie, Neela, Sam, and Malik are donning their cheap, yellow paper-like gowns, eye goggles, and putting on their gloves. They say nothing to one another. Their broken eyes scream of mourning on this night. They're troubled, and they have every right to be after the hell they've been through in the last twelve hours. They have to stay grounded, keep their heads straight and focus on the trauma coming in at any minute. They've been closed to trauma for hours because of what happened, but the medics called in a few minutes ago and suggested that they might want to take this one. They know not who it is; all they know is what happened. Tragic. It happened right down the street, not even a block away. Someone jumped in front of the "L" train. They've handled plenty of these cases before, why should this one be any different?
There is no sound. The ambulance bay doors slide open slowly. Pickman, performing chest compressions, and Zadro—both drenched with rain from the downpour outside—roll their gurney into the waiting room, their patient laying on top of it: soaking wet, their clothes torn and shredded, bloodied beyond all possible recognition. The two paramedics' faces are somber and alarmed at the same time. The three doctors and two nurses rush to meet them in the middle of the waiting room as they push the gurney toward the second set of sliding doors. The group wheels the gravely wounded patient into the main hall and starts their long walk to Trauma 1—seconds drag by, one by one. No words can be heard as Zadro gives the details of the person's condition and what supposedly happened. The group exchanges exhausted, nervous glances. They round the corner leading to Trauma 1 and push the gurney headfirst past the drug lock-up and into the room. They lift the patient onto the trauma gurney, and the paramedics leave with their own.
Medications and x-rays are ordered. Bags of fluid are hung on the IV poles, and IVs are started in the patient's arms. The patient—already intubated—has oxygen forced into their lungs with an ambu bag held by Malik. The 12-lead ECG is hooked up to the person's chest. The blood pressure is taken. Archie takes over the chest compressions. The rhythm of this trauma is like any other.
Neela shines her penlight into the person's eyes. There's something there. Something so unmistakably familiar. She looks at their face, but can't find anything—their face is covered with scrapes, bruises, lacerations, torn to shreds; their bottom lip has been sliced in two; their nose is smashed and broken, as is the rest of their face. She notices their hair: semi-short and dark brown. She glances down at their shoes and something hits her. She's seen them before, no mistake. Black Vans sneakers with a green stripe running across both sides of each shoe. She studies their blood-soaked clothes. Her face goes numb and loses all expression. Tears fill her eyes. She stares at a mangled pair of green scrubs.
There falls a stillness upon them, and everyone stops for the shortest moment. Then, the pace of the trauma picks up—but time creeps by still. They're more afraid, stressed beyond belief, jittery. This person is someone they know. It's someone who's been here since long before they were. Someone who's guided them, taught them, comforted them. Someone they love.
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What's done cannot be undone.
~ William Shakespeare ~
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Sam, Neela, Malik, Greg, and Archie stand around the patient: their arms falling at their sides, their heads hanging—looking down at their fallen colleague. All that's left is a shape that resembles this person; their soul has been invaded, and devoured, by a black flame—one that they should've seen. Their gowns and gloves have been bloodied, along with the gurney and the floor. All efforts have been exhausted. All resources have been depleted. Tears streak down the wounded faces of these five people—the heroes who tried to save one of their own. Emotions are at their peak, and also, blunted at the same time. Anger, surprise, mourning...an entire wave of emotions are churning inside them at this moment. A mountain of guilt weighs on their shoulders—they should've known, they should've been able to stop this. Their soul cried out to them, but they themselves were devastated by the events of the day. They remember telling themselves not to let their friend out of their sight, knowing they were likely to die if left to their own devices. Suicidal patients are one thing. Suicidal friends are something altogether different. They don't know how to react. All they can do is cry. They had to give up the fight, even though they could've gone on for hours trying to save them. They can sense all eyes on the trauma room: from the front desk, from the hall. Staff stand outside the trauma room doors, watching, crying. Among them, standing in front, is Luka. Tears fill his hollow, bloodshot eyes and slide down his cheeks. He's already been deeply traumatized by the tragic events that occurred earlier in the day, and now he's watched as one of his best friends has passed on—a violent, lonely end.
The five who have tried so heroically finally have to take a step back and a deep breath, taking a moment to gather themselves and their thoughts—anguish on their faces, gathered in silence. It will take them a long time to recover from this harsh reality. All except Neela begin to take their gowns, gloves, and goggles off. Sam slowly walks over to one of the carts nearby and comes back with a sheet, handing it to Neela—who's so traumatized by what's happened that she can't move or she would've done it herself. Neela starts to unfold the pale blue fabric—draping one end over the person's feet, as tears swell in her eyes again, and taking the other and bringing it up to their shoulders. She pauses, taking one last look at what's become of her friend, and then, covers their face—shaking her head in anger and sadness. She pulls the stool over that's near her, sits down, and buries her face in her hands as she begins to sob uncontrollably. Greg moves over to her and tries to console her, putting a hand on her back and rubbing soothing circles. There are no words to express in the final echoes of this tragedy. There are no words to say. There are no words.
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There's the first part! Only two more to go! Hope you like it so far, let me know what you think!