Chapter 3

The colours of the hospital faded to grey and the bustle of the floor turned to static. His grip tightened on the edges of the bed as he was suddenly transported to the street of the attack.
He was back next to his Vespa. The world was still grey and there was little noise. All of a sudden he was pushed into the wall from the back. The hand, that he instinctively reached out to soften the blow, was now clasped into a tight fist as the flesh of his buttocks was sliced with phenomenal force. The primal scream that escaped his mouth pierced the void of silence just as the steel blade tore through the other cheek.
He barely had time to comprehend what had happened before his vision was suddenly taken away from him. The harsh fabric that covered his eyes had also blocked his nostrils and Kent was struggling to breathe. As he hyperventilated, his mouth open and gasping, another piece of fabric assaulted his face, this time, in his mouth. His breathing, near impossible now, had increased to the point of near animal rates. With his sight stolen and his voice trapped, Kent felt more scared and alone than ever before.
As the scene faded to just sound and touch, Kent lay, still gripping the bed with clenched fingertips.
He felt hands on him now. Grasping him; pulling him, and as the last remaining source of consistency in his distorted world was ripped away, Kent knew now there was nothing he could do.
The attackers pulled him from the wall and began to lead his disorientated body to the right. After what seemed like a thousand cautious steps, Kent was thrown with brute force to the ground. The dampness in his trouser legs confirmed that his knees were bleeding and the twinge in his ankle was enough to suspect a sprain.
As hands once again grasped him, the dampness on his trousers was no longer an issue, as they were now being slid with disturbing gentility down his legs.
His mind raced; His world span; His heart almost stopped, as with a sickening realisation, it daunt on him what was about to happen.

His ears were assaulted with a barrage of moans and sexual remarks as his dignity, innocence and virginity was perniciously ripped away.

Chandler and Miles ran down the pristine corridor. Under different circumstances, a comical reference may have been uttered, but their minds never swayed from Kent.
Chandler couldn't give a hoot if he 'wasn't allowed in'. He was his friend, hell, he was more than that, and if that didn't cut it, he was also his DI.
The 2 way doors to the emergency room swung open as Joe ran to his colleague.
Kent was the picture of agony. His eyes were closed and his hands gripped the bed as if he were hanging on for life. His breathing was far too rapid, but just as Chandler was about to call for assistance, Kent's body relaxed, no longer conscious.
"Kent!" Chandler's efforts at rousing the young man were in vain, and as he reached his arm out, he was pushed aside.
"Excuse me Sir, who are you?"
"I'm DI Chandler, what's wrong with my DC?"
"I'm sorry Sir, but we need to get him to theatre immediately. He's lost too much blood."
"I'm not leaving him. He's my responsibility."
The doctors were already wheeling the gurney out of the room, but Joe still heard the much welcomed response.
"You can watch in the visitors booth, follow us."

It looked like a scene from a medical drama, as the team of drip holding, anaesthetic giving, bed steadying doctors ran down the hallway.
Miles and Chandler were, once again, speeding through the hospital. As they reached the theatre, a nurse directed them to the viewing booth and gave them a run down of the rules. To Chandler, it was all white noise, but Miles listened intently and assured her they would be no trouble. He was just pleased Joe had been allowed in. It would have crushed him to have Kent taken away just as he'd found him. Being a member of the police had it's perks.

Chandler paced up and down as the theatre staff got ready. The surgeons were scrubbing up in the corner room as the rest of them readied trays, implements and drapes.
Kent was breathing through a regulator now and his body, save for his buttocks and lower back, was covered in green cloths. The surgeons entered and Chandler stopped pacing immediately as they commanded his attention.
For the next 10 minutes, Joe stared intently at Kent and the 'men in green' fussing around him. Done preparing, they were now washing his wounds out with saline solution and assessing the damage. Miles, more concerned for his DI than the man safely in the hands of the surgeons, watched Chandler with sadness and admiration. He'd never seen him so worried. Despite the lack of his usual 'expression', he could feel the anxiety flooding off his friend in quantities far greater than ever before. He was about to put a hand on Joe's shoulder when the DI suddenly stepped forward. They were starting. Really starting.
As one of the surgeons reached out to one of the slashes, his hand lowered and stopped. Through the sound proof glass, all Chandler and Miles could here was muffled bleeping. They couldn't make out what the shorter surgeon was shaking his head about. Chandler stepped forward again and was as close to the glass as he could get without actually touching it. So when the man was handed a pair of silver tweezers and slowly lowered them to Kent, Joe saw exactly what they were clasping.
It took a second to hit him, but when it did, it almost knocked him over. As Chandler staggered back, his hand over his mouth, Miles went to steady him, but turning at the last second in the direction of his boss's gaze, he too stepped back.
Chandler ran out of the viewing booth, his hand firm at his mouth, trying to supress the urge to vomit, and Miles was left alone.
As he stood there in the cold silver room, the rhythmic bleeps only just penetrating the glass, Miles stared at the cigarette butt being held to the light and wondered if life at the station would ever be the same again.