It was past ten in the evening when Neela slammed shut the front door of her apartment. Usually she was more cautious with it when coming home late at night, wanting to avoid complaints from the neighbours, but tonight she was beyond caring. Too many things had gone to hell in the preceding twelve hours. Throwing her bag and coat onto an armchair, Neela slumped down onto the adjacent couch.
Gregory Pratt was dead, having succumbed to massive injuries after the ambulance he'd been riding had been blown up. Neela'd had her differences with Pratt in the past, but in the last few years they had become friends, particularly after sharing the pain of Michael's death. More than anything, Pratt had been one of the few doctors down at County whose opinion and competence she had trusted without question. There one instant, the next… gone. Neela had never expected to actually be missing that shit-eating grin of his.
Abby had fortunately escaped with only minor injuries, although she would be recovering for a few days. It was the only bright spot in an otherwise grim day. She was the only person Neela could confide to about anything. With Tony Gates, things were always a bit awkward, and with Dubenko, Neela preferred to keep things on a professional level.
As incredible as it seemed, Lucien seemed dead set on leaving County. In Neela's opinion, that man was County's surgical department. While Crenshaw had the technical skills, it was Lucien's eccentric leadership style and devotion to patient care that kept the place running. Patient care wasn't the only thing Lucien had a devotion to. She'd never believed that the affections Lucien had confessed to her at Abby's wedding had been simply misguided professional respect. Had the circumstances been different, Neela knew she would have been capable of returning his feelings, despite the fact that she was a resident and he an attending.
That's right, Neela thought to herself. That's how pathetic you've become. You'll grab onto any source of comfort you can get. Even Brenner. That moment with him earlier, before the day had even begun to properly fall apart, had been a moment of sheer unadulterated lust. Of course the man was handsome, and brilliant as a doctor, but Neela had heard enough on the hospital grapevine to know how morally bankrupt he was. At the time it had seemed as if she'd been taking control of the situation by grabbing onto the man, yet in retrospect she'd given Simon exactly the response he'd been shooting for.
Rising up, Neela slowly made her way into the bathroom, leaned over the sink and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She could see her eyes were moist, yet had no recollection of having cried. Holding onto that fleeting thought, Neela opened the mirrored cabinet door, looking for a particular item inside. With an idle air of routine about her, she picked up a small vial and returned to the living room.
From her bag, she retrieved a disposable syringe, still in its wrapper. She'd forgotten it in the pocket of her scrubs while examining a patient earlier in the day. While changing, she'd moved it into her bag, lacking any conscious plan in doing so. Neela ripped open the sterile covering, removed the syringe inside and placed it next to the vial of proxibarbital on the coffee table.
During the preceding year, she'd resorted to self-medication more than once, mostly low doses of oral Dexedrine to stay awake. The vial of barbiturate had found its way into her bathroom cabinet much the same way she'd brought home the syringe, without any premeditation, yet Neela had somehow felt more comfortable with it there, available if needed. She'd read articles about how many doctors resorted to chemical assistance in coping. Why shouldn't she?
She turned on the TV and scanned through the channels, looking for something with pretty images, something that required little mental effort to follow. Landing on a period costume drama, she turned the volume way down and put the remote away. Picking up the vial again, Neela examined the label absent-mindedly, recalling the therapeutic effects of the drug. Essentially, it was euphoria in a bottle, easing anxiety and providing deep sleep.
She mentally calculated a proper dose for her body weight.
-
"Hey buddy, can you spare a smoke?" a throaty, drunken voice asked.
Simon Brenner turned to look and saw a scruffy, disheveled man, seemingly in his mid-fifties, standing by the bar next to him.
"Don't smoke, sorry."
"How about a couple of dollars then? Need me a shot of Wild Turkey to get sorted out."
"I don't do charity either, mate. Get lost."
The bum recoiled momentarily, but didn't give up that easily. Leaning down closer to Brenner's face, he slurred a final plea: "No need to be such an ass, man. Just a dollar or two, hmhmm?"
"Look, fellow, listen real close. Those red spots on your hands seem like erythema to me, and frankly, your breath smells like shit. Both are symptoms of portal hypertension and advanced cirrhosis. So really, I'm doing you a big favour."
The man paled noticeably and immediately took a few steps back. With a inaudibly mumbled apology, the bum moseyed to the door and exited out to the street.
In actuality, the bar was too dimly lit for Simon to have seen any discoloration of the palms, and the smell of alcohol had hidden any possible traces of mercaptans in the man's breath. As Brenner had discovered in the past, properly applied medical jargon was quite effective in getting rid of unwanted company. Taking a swig of his beer, he turned his attention back to the contact list on his mobile phone.
Most of the names were there just waiting to be erased, maybe after sending a brief and blunt text message. Hi, it was fun, but don't call me again, or something of the sort. A few of the girls on the list Simon had seen quite recently, and knew he'd need to keep them hungry. It was never a good idea to seem too eager. Janine, the flight stewardess, he knew to be out of town, same as Gina, a pharmaceutical rep. There were other available candidates, but none of them seemed like the right company for the moment.
"Another one?" the bartender asked, pointing to Simon's empty beer glass. Stirred from his thoughts, he nodded and threw a five-dollar bill on the bar.
You are making excuses, he thought to himself. You know who you really want to call over.
He banished the idea from his mind while receiving his fresh beer. Growing attached simply wasn't something he did. He was an exploiter of opportunities, a player, an master in making others pursue him. He was an expert at his game, and wasn't about to give it up anytime soon. He certainly wasn't about to get soft over a sweet little curry-muncher like her.
Then again, she was in a class of her own compared to Simon's usual conquests - intelligent, compassionate, with an endearing vulnerability about her. She'd probably be particularly vulnerable now, after the day's tragic events. That was an angle he could certainly use, assuming the role of the reformed rogue, consoling her in her grief.
He pocketed his cell phone and took a sip of his drink, his mind set now. He'd focus on this one for a while yet.