It is just after ten o'clock, and she shows no signs of tiring. She sits on a barstool in her kitchen, at the island, staring at a bottle of bourbon. She glances at the unopened bottle, and the glass in front of her. It isn't one of her regular glasses. Instead she finds a Mason jar sitting in front of her. She wants to smile, but her heart feels too heavy. She opens the bottle, and pours some of the amber liquid into the Mason jar. She takes a few sips, and her mind travels to a headstone. She has faced death on more than one occasion. It seems that her recent abduction has brought up many unforgiving memories. She recounts in vivid detail the tombstone of baby Maura Doyle. She reminds herself that her entire life has been lived on borrowed time, from her first breath.
She wonders if her entire life has been a lie. She certainly has not come as far as she thought that she would by now, but then again her plans have been interrupted so many times. She was always too smart for her own good. She entered college shortly after her seventeenth birthday, and finished in only three years. After three years in undergrad school she was able to stick to her plan, and complete four years of medical school, in only three years. After two years as a resident only a single year stood between her, and freedom to practice on her own. That is where her plan was shot to hell, and her world was turned completely upside down.
July 9th, 2002—
She is in the morgue of the hospital, late at night. She is in the locker room, changing out of her scrubs into street clothes. She hears someone arguing outside of the door. She laces her sneakers, and heads for the door. She finds two men arguing in the hallway. She looks up, and finds her mentor moving towards them. Neither of them men seem to notice her. They remain focused on her mentor. The taller of the two gentlemen reaches into the waistband of his pants, and removes a gun from the small of his back. He pulls the trigger, before she can stop him. Her colleague hits the wall. He collapses on the floor in a pool of blood. Without a second thought she races towards him. There is nothing that she can do. It is too late. She notices the whole in his forehead. She hears the click of a gun, and looks up. Her hands are covered in blood, and she finds the two men towering over her. She flinches as the bullet flies towards her. She feels the warmth leaving her body as the footsteps fade into the distance, and she drifts from consciousness.
She traces the rim of her glass. As she thinks about the life she leads now, she can't help but feel guilty. Her nostrils flare as she tries to push the memories back into the recesses of her mind. She feels the anger welling up inside of her as she thinks about her PTSD. Her thoughts shift to all of the times that she has cheated death. She exhales, scoffing, "Like this is living." She feels angry, and bitter. This was not how she imagined her life. She figured she would be married, with children by now. She feels empty, because she may never had the things she wanted most in life. Her normal life trajectory was rudely, and abruptly altered by two nine millimeter bullets.
July 10th, 2002—She opens her eyes, and finds herself connected to a multitude of tubing. There is an IV originating from her antecubital, and oxygen connected to her nose. Her throat burns more with each breath. She can hear monitors chirping, and quickly realizes that she is in the hospital. She looks to her left, and finds a woman in a suit. Despite the severity of the situation she recalls the time in college that the FBI tried to recruit her. The woman notices her stirring, and scoots her chair closer. She pats her hand.
"It's okay," she reassures her.
Maura studies the woman with dark hair. For some reason she isn't sure that she can believe her.
"Maura you were shot."
"I remember.
"You had your phone in your jacket pocket. The bullet nicked your phone, and slightly altered the trajectory of the bullet. The bullet ended up lodged in your scapula. You are lucky to be alive. They removed the bullet."
"I just want to go home."
The woman reaches into her pocket, and pulls out identification.
No matter how many crime scenes she visits she is always brought back to that night. From the feeling of the blood draining from her body, to lying on the cold tile floor in the basement of the hospital, the details don't escape her. She remembers the faces of the perpetrators as clearly as if it had just happened the previous day. She was on rotation in the morgue. She never had the desire to become a medical examiner. After that day she was driven to speak for the dead for a very personal reason. She wonders who would have spoken for her, if she hadn't made it that day, or any of the others in which her life was supposed to be stolen from her. But what kind of life was she living?